


White Picket Fences

by Aoidos



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mpreg, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom Cobb is a terrible friend and has no idea not only Arthur and Eames are married, but they've had three children together. He finds out the truth when he's recruited for a dodgy job and inadvertently brings trouble to their doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys — I'm going to eventually go into more depth with the A/B/O/mpreg dynamics, but this first chapter is just a lot of set up.
> 
> POV and timeline will jump around a lot because I intend to do flashbacks to go into detail about A/E's marriage and pregnancies. 
> 
> In this evening's performance, the role of dangerous head kidnapper is played by Michael Shannon because he's the man.

For nearly a decade after Inception, Dominic Cobb lives a completely ordinary, unremarkable life as an architecture professor and father of two. He buys a new house in a California suburb with a big yard for Phillipa and James to play on, and gradually sheds the ghost of Mal as he donates her clothes and books in slow, steady increments so as to not arouse suspicion in Phillipa and alarm in James. It's difficult to pull a fast one on his daughter, though. She's sharp — like her mother — and she notices when a pair of Mal's pearls go missing.

 

"I know what you're doing," she says gravely one morning over her bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

 

After that, Cobb stops throwing out Mal's things, and everything goes back to normal until the day he's walking to campus and a white, unmarked van pulls up beside him and three masked men jump out, grab him, and throw a bag over his head. He shouts and kicks before landing on his ass inside the vehicle, and he hears the sliding door slam shut and the rubber of the wheels peel on the asphalt as they take off. When pairs of hands grab at his arms and legs to pin him to the floor, he struggles and lashes out, hollering at the tops of his lungs in the hopes a neighbor might hear him.

 

"Shut up!" one of the men yells, kicking him square in the ribs. Groaning loudly, he curls up to protect his stomach and stops struggling. A hundred frantic thoughts circle through his mind — about the possible identities of his assailants, his own fate, and what his children will do when he doesn't come home from work. When he was the preeminent extractor in dreamsharing, he and Arthur acquired numerous enemies, but the point man had always been better at keeping track of their foes. Cobb desperately tries to remember who they fucked over badly enough to retaliate by kidnapping him a block from his house, but no names pop into his head.

 

Wherever they're headed, it takes a long time, and Cobb gives up counting the numbers of times they turn left and right. The van eventually picks up speed and he can tell they're on the highway, but after that, he loses track of the turns again. His temple bumps against the floor when they drive across a rough patch of road — gravel, judging by the way the wheels tremor. Miserably, he comes to terms with the fact that they're in the middle of nowhere, miles from his home and witnesses.

 

"Look, I can get you money," he says when they stop and one of the men pulls him to a seated position. He recalls Saito's promise to protect his investments. The man had already helped him get his children back, but maybe he'd do him another favor in a pinch. 

 

" _Shut. Up."_

 

One of them grabs him by the back of his jacket and pushed him from the van, and he stumbles on the ground for a second before he falls straight onto his face. The men erupt in laughter.

 

"You sure this is the guy?" one of them asks.

 

"I'm sure," another voice — deeper — answers, unamused.

 

He groans in pain when two of the man grab and drag him into a building of some sort — big, Cobb realizes when he hears the clicking of their shoes echo in the cavernous space. The concrete is cold beneath his knees and he wonders if they've taken him to a warehouse. His heart hammers in his chest when he thinks of all the reasons that might be: privacy, no neighbors for miles in any direction, easy clean up afterwards. His kidnappers pick him up off the floor and drop him on a metal chair. One of them yanks his arms backward and secures his wrists with zip ties, then ties his limbs to the chair itself so he can't move an inch.

 

The canvas bag flies away suddenly and harsh light temporarily blinds him. Cobb ducks his chin and focuses on blinking rapidly, his eyes gradually focusing on his thighs, and then a pair of crocodile skin boots in front of him. When he looks up, he sees a tall man standing there — dark hair, wide-set eyes, a mole on his left cheek. His cruel mouth frowns, and Cobb knows instantly that this is the leader.

 

"Look, I don't know who you're after—" Cobb rambles.

 

"Why don't you shut up for a minute?" the man interrupts in a nasal, cutting snarl. 

 

Cobb swallows thickly and stares at the man's face. His eyes are slightly wild as he stares back at the extractor. 

 

"You know who I am?" the man asks, and Cobb takes a moment before answering. His face is unfamiliar, so he looks at the rest of him: turquoise bolo tie secured around his neck — a white skull holding the strings together, black shirt, black jeans tucked into the boots. Cobb knows he's never seen him before in his entire life, but the man seems to have expected that response because he smirks. "I'm a friend of Robert Fischer."

 

Cobb's blood runs cold and he instantly goes light-headed. Stupidly, he's seized by the impulse to lie — to say he's never heard of Robert Fischer and this is all a terrible mistake, but a moment later he realizes that would be a waste of time because _of course_ this man knows his entire history. They probably have photos of the entire Inception team together.

 

Still, his survival instincts are running in high gear. "We were just hired by our client. I have absolutely no qualms with Mister Fischer myself."

 

The man listens, nodding and pouting in mock sympathy as Cobb hysterically explains himself. "Mister Cobb, I'm gonna stop you right there," he says as he holds up a hand. "I'm not _friends_ with Mister Fischer in the sense that we're, like, golfing buddies, you understand? We don't call each other to chat about our feelings and get brunch together, you see?"

 

Behind his back, Cobb hears the other men snicker.

 

Their leader squares his shoulders and grins ruthlessly. "I'm more the _hide the bodies_ type of friend. You understand?" Cobb can't look away from his eyes, even as they go a little crazy and the smirk vanishes from his lips. "I'm not interested in why you performed Inception on him. We know you did. That's all that matters."

 

Terrible silence settles in the room and Cobb nods helplessly. So that's it, then. There's nothing else to say. These men — and Robert Fischer — know about Inception, but why had the man waited for nearly a decade to retaliate? Fischer had already dissolved his father's company. 

 

The man cracks his knuckles. "Mister Cobb, we're interested in hiring you for a job."

 

Cobb stares at him in surprise. "I'm retired."

 

Looking at him like he might be slow, the man nods. "Yeah, I caught that. We want you to un-retire." When Cobb says nothing, the man sighs and squints over his head at something — maybe the back door of the warehouse. "Ironically, your client, Mister Saito, has built an energy empire, which supposedly he was _morally_ opposed to when he hired your team," he says, drawing out the word _morally_ like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. The man's gaze slides back to rest on Cobb's face and he smirks. "Mister Fischer has decided he doesn't care for civilian life, and he wants to get back into the game."

 

He stares blankly at the man for a beat before blurting out: "You want us to perform Inception on _Saito_?"

 

"Correct, Mister Cobb," the man says derisively like he's the slowest kid in gym class to cross the finish line. "We'd like you to do exactly what you did to Mister Fisher to Mister Saito."

 

Cobb shakes his head, and forgetting where he is for a moment, laughs. "Impossible. Saito knows us. He'll know he's dreaming."

 

As though bored by Cobb's existence, the man's gaze flits distractedly around the room while he frowns and shakes his head a little. "We're willing to wager that's not the case. You're associates of his. It's perfectly feasible he'd have a dream about you."

 

"It's not going to work," Cobb emphasizes, his voice raising in desperation because, honestly, this was a suicide mission. Even if he accepted the job, it was doomed for failure.

 

"Yeah, well, we already picked up your chemist and architect and they're waiting for you, so looks like you'll have to make it work," the leader snarls and withdraws a gun from the back of his pants. Before Cobb could formulate a rational response, the man cocks the gun and sticks the barrel in his face. "So let's try this again: do you, or do you not, accept our job offer?"

 

Cobb thrashes against the chair, pulling in vain at his restraints as he tries to move his head out of the line of the gun's sight, a pointless exercise considering the man simply minutely readjusts to aim the barrel between Cobb's eyes again.

 

"If you kill me, you won't be able to pull off Inception," Cobb says.

 

The other man grins, like a part of him respects the ballsy response. "Touche. Okay, so I'll go to your house and shoot your two cute kids. How's about that?"

 

Any temporary bravery Cobb feels instantly vanishes. His children had only just returned to a system of normalcy — or as close to normal as their family would ever have. Cobb has always been willing to do absolutely anything to keep his children safe, up to and including placing himself in incredibly dangerous situations.

 

"Fine," he spits. "Fine, I'll do it."

 

He laughs — or barks, really — the sound loud and harsh. "Good. Glad to hear it. Now, we'll also need your forger, Mister Eames, and of course your point man, Mister Levine."

 

 _Arthur_. Cobb had barely seen him since Inception, only occasionally meeting with him to catch up on their lives, and even that lately had become marathon bitching session on Cobb's part in which he fretted over the futures of Phillipa and James, and Arthur — patient, kind Arthur — offered his best advice. He thinks about the possibility of dragging the man into another dodgy situation and feels sick.

 

"We don't need them," he says.

 

The man looks unimpressed. "Oh, I disagree. We definitely need a forger."

 

"Fine, I'll get Eames, but we don't need Arthur," Cobb says, a lie because Arthur was the best and Inception wouldn't have been possible without him. "I'll find someone else."

 

Evidently, the leader had grown tired of his hedging tactic because his hand suddenly cracks across Cobb's face, the butt of the gun tearing into his cheek. He cries out, seeing stars for a moment as a hot, wet sensation spreads across his jaw — blood, rivulets of blood pouring down his face. The droplets drip off his chin and splatter against the collar of his shirt.

 

"Fuck!" Cobb shouts, bucking in the chair violently so it almost tips backwards. It doesn't, though, and the legs clatter against the floor noisily when he tips forward again.

 

"Let's try that again," the man sneers, wiping off the handle of his gun as if Cobb's blood had sullied the weapon. He steps forward and grabs Cobb by the hair roughly, yanking back his head and shoving the gun to his temple. "You will collect Mister Eames and Mister Levine. Do you understand?"

 

"Yes," Cobb gasps, some of the blood slipping past his lips and coating his tongue. He coughs, gagging reflexively.

 

"Good!" he cries, releasing Cobb and patting his cheek like they're old friends. "I knew you'd see things our way."

 

The man places the hood over Cobb's head again before they carry him from the warehouse and deposit him back inside the van. Then they reverse the trip, cut his restraints, and throw him out of the van as it very slowly drives down his street. Cobb lands hard on his side and rolls onto his lawn, and by the time he yanks the bag off his head, the van is screeching around the corner and out of sight. No one is around to see any of this happen because it's the middle of the day, and his sleepy cul-de-sac is full of working professionals who are at their jobs.

 

Cobb sits there, half his face covered in blood, his tie thrown across his shoulder, hair in total disarray. He fishes out his cell phone from his jacket pocket and scrolls through the name until he finds Arthur's contact information, including his address.

 

***

 

"What the hell?" Eames yelps, frowning at the television screen. "What just happened?" he asks, staring at the avatar of his video game character, who appears extremely dead as he lays in a pool of his own blood.

 

"You're dead," Jack replies flatly. "I killed you." 

 

Eames stares at the back of his son's head in disbelief. He's known henchmen with more compassion. "I noticed, yeah. How about you let me live longer than two minutes so I can figure out this bloody game?" he grumbles and tosses the controller across the couch.

 

Jack glances over his shoulder and grins cheekily. He has Eames' smile, but his teeth are straight thanks to Arthur, who had insisted upon proper oral hygiene since the beginning. Eames extends his arms across the back of the couch and watches Jack's character run about, razing the earth, until he hears Arthur walking down the hallway from the bedroom.

 

"Eames?" he calls, until he sees them in the living room. Then he sighs and throws up his hands. "Why isn't he dressed yet?" he asks, gesturing to Jack.

 

Furrowing his brow, Eames glanced at his wristwatch. "We have ages to get ready, love."

 

Arthur looks less than impressed at that excuse. "I got Rose and Max ready, so please, just…get him dressed, and you get dressed, too," he says, frowning at Eames' sweatpants and undershirt like they've personally offended him. His mate is decked out in a gorgeous dark suit — complete with a vest and dark red tie, his hair combed carefully back from his face.

 

"You look really nice," Eames says, distracted.

 

Arthur shakes his head and smirks. "Turn that thing off and get ready, okay?" he asks before disappearing down the hallway again.

 

"Okay, mate," Eames says, groaning a little as he climbs off the couch and ambles over to the television. He leans down and switches off the Xbox. 

 

Jack grumbles and sets down the controller. "This is stupid. Why do I have to go?"

 

Eames sighs quietly. His son is young — nine — but he is already beginning to exhibit some classic alpha characteristics: constantly challenging authority, stubbornness, aggression. He butted heads with Arthur quite frequently because somewhere deep in his brain, he realizes this is an _Omega_ ordering him around, and he doesn't like it. He wonders how he could possibly explain to a child that it isn't worth fighting. Eames is an alpha and Arthur has been ordering _him_ around for ages.

 

"C'mon," he commands simply and grips Jack's hand to pull him to his feet. The boy tends to fuss less with him — probably because of Eames alpha's status. Whenever he throws a tantrum, Jack only calms down when Eames takes him into his arms and the boy wails against his shoulder, his cries only tapering off after he inhales deeply and breathes in his scent. Nothing else seems to placate him.

 

Eames is close to Jack because he _understands_ him, and he's their eldest, so selfishly, he gets to do more fun stuff with him, like play video games, and secretly, teach him to play cards. That last bit is an activity kept between him and Jack because Arthur certainly wouldn't approve.

 

He heads to Jack's bedroom, which he shares with Max. Their youngest is standing in front of a dressing mirror as he tugs and readjusts his tie, a serious scowl on his face. He looks exactly like a tiny version of Arthur, which he is, in a way. Arthur is already convinced Max will be an omega like him, and while it's too early to be certain, he seems to display some of the telltale signs: quiet, shy, submissive and eager to please his father, an alpha, and his big brother, another alpha.

 

Eames was forced to have a serious conversation with Jack when the boy kept taking Max's toys from him, and the younger boy simply _let_ him because complacency was built into his DNA. 

 

"Your strength is not for bullying Max," he'd said as Jack sat in the kitchen, his head hung in shame.

 

Watching Max, he feels a renewed sense of wonder regarding Arthur. It had taken him years to learn that his mate fought against his natural inclinations as an omega every day in order to play the part of confident, capable point man. It was only when they were alone in the privacy of their bedroom that Arthur showed his true nature, and he was sure no one would believe him if he said his mate could be a sweet, loving omega in the right setting, but it was true. Arthur could be quite the eager-to-please omega, which is how they ended up with three sprogs — each only a year apart in age.

 

"Hey, little man," he says, grinning when Max looks up and smiles, Arthurian dimples appearing on his chubby cheeks. "You look excellent."

 

"It's my new tie," Max brags, turning to show off the ensemble. Like his father, Max has always been a fan of men's fashion. 

 

"I see that. Very sharp. Let's help your brother, yeah?" Eames says, the two of them looking over to Jack, who continues frowning like every step of getting ready to go out is killing him a little bit.

 

"Why do I have to go?" Jack whines again.

 

Eames walks over to the boys' closet and selects a suit and tie he knows Arthur will approve of. "Because your dad has been looking forward to this for a long time and it means a lot to him," Eames explains as he lays out the clothing on the bed and crosses the room to select a pair of socks for Jack.

 

"It's the _ballet_ ," Jack points out, disgusted by the whole thing, falling onto his bed in a huff beside the suit.

 

Eames sighs. "Look, mate. I know. But your dad and I used to do stuff like this all the time, and I think he misses it, so let's just…do it for him, okay?" He returns to the bed and places his hands on his hips, hoping he can inspire Jack to move with just his physical presence.

 

It works, though the boy looks miserable as he stands, undresses, and tugs on his suit. Eames helps him straighten the jacket and clip on the tie. "There. Very nice," he says and rubs Jack's head before the boy grumbles and storms from the room, probably to go play with his Xbox until Arthur forces him to leave the house.

 

Rose, their middle child, wanders into the boys' room. "Daddy, will you braid my hair?" she asks and hands him a My Little Pony hairbrush. She's wearing a pretty dress — white, lace around the hem, a matching band pulling her hair back. Unlike the boys, Rose is a combination of them in every way — looks and personality. Her hair is dark like Arthur's, but she was born with Eames' eyes and lips. She's neither as aggressive as Jack nor as submissive as Max, but she definitely inherited Arthur's analytical skills because she's top of her class in every subject.

 

Eames is bias, but he's fairly certain she'll be president of the United States one day.

 

"Of course, pet," he says.

 

***

 

Cobb cleans himself up, calls the babysitter, and drives to Arthur's place, which is only about forty miles away. Before he leaves, he's reminded once again of what a terrible friend he is when he first has to rummage about for an old Christmas card in order to remember Arthur's address. It's not that he's taken Arthur for granted exactly, per se, but Inception had been a painful time during his life. It was tempting to bury his entire past, including Arthur, for the sake of moving forward with his family.

 

He has no idea what the point man had been up to all these years, but Cobb assumes he's probably still working, living as a bachelor and international criminal. He doesn't even want to think about what Eames had been up to, but he is certain Arthur will know where the forger is staying because Arthur _always_ seemed to know where Eames lives.

 

Cobb is surprised to see that Arthur lives in a nice, quiet neighborhood lined with houses that _don't_ look like they're straight from the pages of _Dwell_. The homes are quaint — white picket fences, ivy growing up the sides of the homes on trestles, little kids playing in sprinklers on the front lawns. It makes him a little sad to imagine Arthur living alone in a house among all these families. He makes a mental note to invite the point man to holiday dinners at his house from now on.

 

He parks the car in the street along the curb, walks up the cobble pathway and knocks on the door. 

 

When it opens, he blinks before his gaze drops down to a small child standing in the doorway. 

 

"Who're you?" the kid asks, rudely, in Cobb's opinion.

 

"Um…hello, I'm Dominic Cobb. I'm…looking for Arthur," Cobb says, furrowing his brow, wondering how he could have possibly gotten the address wrong. Had Arthur moved?

 

"DAD!" the boy screams, startling Cobb. "There's some guy here for you!"

 

Cobb freezes when _Eames_ appears behind the child, and it seems as though the surprise is mutual because the forger gapes back at him. He looks back to the boy, and then to Eames, and…well…Cobb might have been thick sometimes, but he's not _stupid_. The boy was obviously Eames' son — the child almost an exact duplicate, but in miniature form.

 

" _Cobb_?" Eames asks disbelievingly. 

 

"Uh, hello," he says, smiling politely once he remembers his purpose for visiting. "This is your boy?" he asks, reaching to ruffle Jack's hair awkwardly. He might have had two kids of his own, but that didn't make Cobb comfortable around other people's children.

 

"Um, yeah. Come in," Eames says as he waves his hand, ushering Cobb into the house. 

 

He walks into the hallway, and noting a pile of shoes by the closet door, kicks off his own and pads into the living room in his socked feet. "You're visiting Arthur?" he asks, dropping into an armchair. 

 

Eames stares at him, furrowing his brow before he looks to Jack. "Go get him," he says softly, and when the boy leaves the room after casting a curious look at Cobb, he crosses the room. "Uh, Cobb, mate. Look…" he begins, but just then Arthur hurries in.

 

"Cobb.." he says, eyes wide, clearly surprised to see him.

 

He smiles broadly. Despite the dire reasons for visiting, it's undeniably good to see his former right-hand man. Cobb stands and they embrace, Arthur stiff in his arms for some reason — probably shock — and he firmly slaps the man on the back in an attempt to relax him, because Cobb isn't _just_ awkward socializing with children — that trouble empathizing extending to adults as well.

 

"I…didn't know you were in the area," Arthur says, his voice slightly muffled against Cobb's shoulder.

 

Not knowing what to say in response because _Yeah, a dangerous man wanted me to recruit you for a job_ wasn't appropriate, Cobb unwraps his arms from Arthur and steps aside, which is when he sees the other two little kids standing by the kitchen. 

 

_What the hell?_

 

Unlike the first kid, the other children don't strictly look like Eames, and when he stares closer at the smaller boy dressed in a little suit, a scowl fixated on his face, Cobb's eyes widen. _Oh my God._

 

"You have children?!" he cries, unable to help the squeak in his voice.

 

Arthur quickly turns to the kids. "Guys, go wait in your rooms," he says, but the children don't move — they simply keep staring at Cobb, the crazy man who's just invaded their home. " _Now_ ," Arthur snaps, and that gets the kids' attention. They hurry away down the hall and two doors slam shut.

 

"How can you have children?" Cobb asks dumbly, looking from Arthur to Eames.

 

The forger looks bashful before he clears his throat. "What…like…biologically?"

 

Cobb glares at him. "No, _Eames_. I know where babies come from. I mean _how_? You were never pregnant when I saw you," he says when he looks to Arthur. Of course, he's always known Arthur is an omega, but in the sort of distant way one knows one's parents must have had sex to conceive them. He knew it to be biologically true, but he did his very best never to think about it.

 

Arthur sighs and shrugs weakly. "We don't really see each other that often. We always got together between my pregnancies."

 

He deflates a little at that response. _A terrible, terrible friend_ , Cobb reminds himself. He'd only seen Arthur four…maybe five times in the past _nine years_. The man has a family, and Cobb has no idea that he—

 

Snapping out of his self-loathing, he rounds on Eames. "Wait, you?!"

 

Eames blinks at him. "Pardon?"

 

"You married Eames?" Cobb cries, feeling alarmed all over again.

 

"Oi," the forger says, affronted, his brows furrowing. "What's wrong with marrying me?"

 

"You mean for starters?"

 

"Cobb," Arthur breaks in, using his calm tone that always successfully distracted the alphas when they were at each other's throats.  "Why are you here?"

 

He sighs and rubs his face gingerly before giving them the run down — complete with the details of his kidnapping and interrogation. When he finishes, Arthur stares at him, his eyes wide in horror.

 

"Cobb, you idiot," he growls and sprints for the front door, locking it before peering out the peephole. "Did anyone follow you?" he asks over his shoulder.

 

Cobb feels like an unhelpful, clumsy giant in their home as he stands there, arms extended by his side as he shrugs. "I mean…no. I don't think…"

 

Eames calmly crosses the room to the kitchen and fishes a set of keys from a junk drawer. He then unlocks a cabinet and pulls out two guns. As he loads them, he calls out to Arthur. "Time?"

 

"Two minutes," Arthur calls. "I see one car, but there's probably more."

 

Though he was a confident boss in dreams, Cobb was largely unhelpful in these kinds of situations in real life. He hadn't been trained like Eames and Arthur, and so he stands in the middle of their living room, gaze flitting between the two men until Eames hands Arthur one of the guns and points at Cobb.

 

"You. You're coming with me. I'll take Max and Rose. That's all I can fit. You take Jack," he says to Arthur, who nods in response.

 

"Go now," the point man instructs, and Cobb doesn't even have a chance to utter a surprised cry when Eames grabs him by the arm and drags him toward the garage, not even giving him a chance to put his shoes back on. 

 

"Rose! Max! Come on!" he barks, the kids racing down the hallway and piling into the back of the car, Cobb riding shotgun. 

 

"I'm going to kill you," Eames growls beneath his breath when he looks at him.

 

"Where's dad?" Max asks from behind them.

 

"He's coming," Eames says just as Arthur emerges with Jack and they pile into the other car. The forger discreetly cradles the gun against the door — out of the sight of the children as he clicks the garage opener and waits for the door to raise. "Hey, guys. Let's play the hiding game, okay?" In the rearview mirror, Cobb sees Max grin broadly as he ducks down in the seat, and Rose follows suit. "Good job. Stay just like that," Eames says, his voice remarkably calm as he start the engine, throws the car in reverse, and steps on the gas.

 

The wheels screech as he flies down the driveway and Cobb's heart is instantly in his throat when he hears gunfire. The rear window suddenly shatters, Rose screams, and a second after they exit the garage, he sees Arthur's car fly down the drive. Eames only has a split second to throw the car in drive and tear past the black sedan before Arthur's car is also in the street. When he looks out the window, Cobb sees the man from the warehouse staring back at him from the car, gripping a gun in his hand.

 

"Shit," Cobb gasps, gripping the seatbelt in his hand and shakily securing it in the buckle. " _Shit_ ," he says again over the sounds of Rose crying.

 

"It's okay, baby. It's okay," Eames soothes, reaching back with his free hand to touch Rose's leg comfortingly.

 

When Dom looks back, he sees Max crying, though silently, and the boy draws his knees to his chest, burying his face against his legs. Eames tries to do everything at once — calm the children, manoeuvre the car, and also look at the rearview window to check on Arthur. Cobb looks out the side window for the same reason when he sees a flash from the black sedan — another shot — and Arthur's tire explodes. The car fishtails violently before the vehicle flips — suspends in the air for one terrible, endless moment, and then crashes to the street. By the time the car lands, it's upside-down, partly in the street and partly on a neighbor's lawn.

 

Cobb doesn't remember Eames slamming on the breaks or throwing the car into park, but suddenly he's running down the street beside him — except, he's unarmed whereas Eames has a gun and he's firing at the sedan, which is now parked beside Arthur's overturned car, and Arthur is _screaming_ — a bone-chilling sound Cobb's never heard before. There's the sound of a struggle and then more gunfire and Cobb covers his head while Eames fires back. He has no idea what's happening because he can't see anything, and neither can Eames, because the sedan is parked between them and Arthur.

 

Suddenly, the sedan's doors slam and the car peels off. 

 

For a second, he's actually relieved because he sees Arthur crawling from the car, cut and bloody, but _alive_. The gratitude evaporates the second he sees the terror on the point man's face.

 

"They took Jack," he yells, hysterical even as Eames grips his arms and tries to keep him still. "Eames, they took Jack," Arthur cries again, consumed by fury and grief all at once. He leans against the destroyed car and sobs, blood trickling down the side of his face. Cobb looks down the street, but the black sedan is already gone.

 

"What do they want with him?" Eames shouts, leaving Arthur and stalking toward Cobb with such ferocity in his eyes that he is fairly certain the forger will shoot him in the middle of the street.

 

Cobb shakily holds up his hands — a pitiful barrier between himself and the force of a desperate father. "Leverage," he rasps. When the two men look at him, he clarifies. "So you'll do the job."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About the first time Eames knocked up Arthur.

The first time Eames met Arthur had been an unmitigated disaster. He'd been fresh out of MI6's dreamshare program — recruited by a fellow named Dominic Cobb on behalf of Her Majesty's National Dream Institute to participate in some extremely hush-hush business. He'd never met Cobb or any of the other teammates he'd be working with, but that was precisely why he was at O'Hagan's Pub — a small faux-Irish dive nestled in an area of London that had yet to conform to please foreign tourists. The place was shit, basically, and Eames loved it right away.

 

He stood in the doorway and looked about. Cobb had said he'd recognize Eames and come fetch him when he entered the bar, so when no one greeted him, Eames concluded he must have been early. Then his gaze fell upon the back of a slim, dark-haired young man standing at the bar. Eames grinned wolfishly and sauntered toward him. Well, _since he was early_ , there was really no harm in having a spot of fun in the meantime.

 

"Buy you a drink, sweetheart?" he asked saucily. It was a bold opener — one that might have ended in a bar brawl, but Eames could handle himself in a fight, and sometimes it paid to be ballsy.

 

Not this time, though.

 

As it turned out, the front of the young man was just as nice as the back — his face was pale, lips pink, eyes a lovely shade of dark brown — but best of all was the icy little scowl furrowing his brow. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, delightfully ruffled about the whole thing. Eames felt positively giddy when confronted with the hostile little force of nature — an Arctic low front colliding with his otherwise tropical climate. Eames gave him a quick and subtle once-over: the young man was American and dressed like he planned to strut down a catwalk in the near future.

 

Best of all, he smelled heavenly. Eames deliberately failed to answer the question for several long moments just so he could inhale greedily — the scent was sweet, classic omega, but with an undercurrent of something spicy that tickled his nostrils and made him feel slightly lightheaded. He wanted to bury his face in the crook of the young man's long neck and breathe him in, but the rational part of his brain warned that probably wasn't a brilliant idea, especially considering the man hadn't stopped glaring at him since he first arrived to the bar.

 

"I said I'd like to buy you a drink, pet," he purred in his lowest register, just to hammer home the point that he was an alpha, and he knew what his voice did to omegas.

 

Well, _ordinarily_ his voice had a positive effect on omegas. This time, it seemed to only aggravate the young man. He rolled his eyes and pushed away the empty glass in front of him. "I already had one, thanks."

 

"Have another," he quipped and smiled crookedly. Eames carefully watched the young omega's face for signs of arousal: dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, a fine layer of sweat coating the brow, but…nothing. He simply stared back at Eames, a brow quirked in confusion before his gaze flitted over Eames' shoulder suddenly and he raised a hand in greeting to someone — maybe his mate, but Eames hadn't smelled another alpha on him. He turned, unsure if he was going to charm or fight his way out of this situation, when he saw a tall blond man approaching them.

 

 _Ah. So a mate then_. Eames cursed his luck. His nose had been a bit stuffed up since he'd developed a cold earlier in the week, so perhaps that's why he hadn't smell the mate's scent. A smile broke across his face and he was all geared up to spout in his most charmingly befuddled Englishman routine — _terribly sorry, old boy. Can't blame a bloke for trying, can you?_ when the man stuck out his hand and said: "Hi there. Dominic Cobb. We spoke on the phone earlier."

 

Eames blinked and stared at his hand. "Ah. Right," he said and gripped Cobb's hand, giving it a firm shake. "Yes, right. Of course. Good to finally meet you." 

 

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he heard the young man groan from behind him, and when he released Cobb's hand and turned to face him, the lovely creature was slumped against the bar, looking miserable. " _This_ is the wonderful forger you've been droning on about?" The omega eyed Eames like he was something he found on the bottom of his Dolce & Gabbana dress shoes.

 

"Yes!" Cobb crowed happily, clueless. "This is Eames. Mister Eames, this is Arthur, my point man." 

 

Eames grinned sheepishly when he extended is hand. "Lovely to meet you, Arthur," he murmured, experiencing a little thrill when Arthur was forced to take his hand and shake it. His fingers were strong, but the skin was soft, and when he looked the omega up-and-down this time, there was nothing subtle about his gaze. He hoped his meaning was conveyed clearly enough: _I'd like to rip those overpriced layers off of you_.

 

If Arthur's glare was anything to judge by, the message reached base — loud and clear.

 

***

Eames had his reservations about working with an omega point man, but Arthur quickly proved his concerns were unfounded. The man was bold, assured, and more than capable in his position as Cobb's right-hand man. The only problem was other people treating Arthur like he was a joke, simply because he looked eighteen-years-old and happened to be born with breeding capabilities. 

 

On their first job together as a team, their chemist, a tall Swede named Hedley, got a bit fresh with Arthur. Eames witnessed the man grab the omega's rear when he thought no one was looking. When he crossed the room and jacked Hedley against the wall, the Swede and Arthur seemed genuinely stunned. "Problem, mate?" he growled, feeling the man's Adam's apple bob against his forearm. Hedley could barely breathe, let alone answer him, and Eames eventually realized someone was tugging at his back — Arthur.

 

"Eames, let him go. It's okay," he soothed calmly.

 

But he didn't want to let Hedley go. Suddenly, he was consumed by the desire to crush the man's windpipe, to grip his throat and squeeze until the man's eyes bulged from his head and his face turned blue. Eames couldn't recall another time when he'd felt so angry, and in that moment it occurred to him that at some point he'd begun to think of Arthur as _his —_ even though they'd never touched in more than a strictly professional capacity, and even though he was fairly certain Arthur considered him an amusing annoyance, at best.

 

He dropped Hedley back to the floor and backed away, his gaze fixed to the floor because he knew if Hedley accidentally made eye contact with him, he'd probably tear out his throat. The other alpha was worked up, pheromones excreting from his pores and flooding Eames' nose, causing his head to pound painfully. 

 

"You should go," he heard Arthur say to Hedley softly, and then he was aware of the alpha moving across the room, away from them. "Eames," Arthur said again once they were alone. "Are you okay?" the point man asked, and he sounded very far away. Eames eventually became aware of something cool and smooth in his hand, and he realized Arthur was attempting to hand him a glass of water. He gripped the glass and brought it to his lips, drinking deeply from it. He felt dizzy and suddenly extremely parched. 

 

It was just the two of them in the office — Cobb having left for the day and Hedley probably running back to Sweden as they spoke.  Eames sat down in the nearest chair and exhaled loudly. It had been a long time since he'd felt out of control like that. Normally, he could defuse situations involving other alphas with a bit of good-natured ribbing and dry British humor, but when he'd seen Hedley with his hands on Arthur, something snapped.

 

"That happen often?" he asked, his voice a bit rough.

 

Arthur shrugged and sat on the edge of his desk. "No offense, but I'm used to alphas acting stupid," he said, grinning slightly, and Eames realized that was Arthur's attempt at a little joke.

 

He smirked in response. "Why don't you take suppressors?" Alphas only lost control around omegas when their scent overwhelmed them, and Arthur happened to be a sweeter smelling omega than most. In fact, Eames had to concede he was the nicest smelling omega he'd ever encountered.

 

The teasing expression instantly vanished from Arthur's face, and it occurred to him too late that he'd just asked a question Arthur had probably been forced to field a million other times. Eames winced inwardly. He hated being a cliche. "Why should I have to drug myself because alphas can't control themselves?" he asked bitterly. His jaw locked tensely, a muscle in his cheek spasming. The omega gripped the edge of the desk as he crossed his legs in front of him. It was a defensive posture, and Eames hated knowing he was the cause of it.

 

"You're right," he admitted immediately. His head had begun to clear and he could thinking rationally again. "Sorry I…intervened. I know you can handle yourself," he said a bit sheepishly, looking at the empty glass in his hand. When he glanced at Arthur, he saw the point man shrug a bit, but a small smile hung on his lips.

 

"True, but…I appreciate it."

 

That was the first moment Eames realized Arthur liked him — maybe only a tiny bit, but the seed had been planted. Eames grinned, and if he'd had a tail, it would have wagged.

 

***

 

Their rivalry at work became something Eames looked forward to almost as much as dreaming itself. He teased, and Arthur pushed back, delightfully prickly and wickedly brilliant. Their other teammates rolled their eyes or threw knowing glances at each other as Cobb carried on, utterly oblivious. These flirty crumbs were enough to sustain Eames, but it didn't occur to him until his thirty-second birthday that he may have inadvertently level jumped their relationship. 

 

He was at a bar with Yusuf, a mate from Mombasa, when a pretty young omega _literally_ climbed onto his lap and kissed his neck. Yusuf's brows raised before he gave the thumbs up sign. Eames was being handed a lovely omega on a silver platter, and yet all he could think about was Arthur in his snug, stylish layers. He had a willing, furnace hot body writhing against him, and all he wanted to do was have another passive-aggressive conversation with the point man. 

 

"Have you met my friend?" Eames asked, pointing to Yusuf. "He's the richest man in Africa."

 

The blond paused in the midst of squirming to glance at Yusuf. "Hi," he slurred before pressing his lips to Eames' ear. "I want to ride your cock."

 

 _Well then_. 

 

Yusuf grumbled beside him: "Richest man in Africa and I still can't compete with a bloody alpha."

 

Eames gently patted the omega's back as he eased out of the booth and stood. "I should be off," he said, even though it was nine o'clock and he knew Yusuf was just warming up for an all-night bender. He ignored the man's objections and the pout of the omega, insisted on throwing down a couple notes for the tab, and then left.

 

As he walked back to his temporary flat, Eames mulled over the quandary facing him. He was in love — that was pretty clear, considering thoughts of Arthur haunted his every waking moment. The problem was Arthur had only occasionally indicated he valued Eames' friendship. They'd never taken their relationship beyond some pigtail pulling, and yet he had just turned away a perfectly willing shag. At some point, he'd begun to think of Arthur as his mate, which was utterly mad because Arthur was his colleague, and an occasional friend, but _not his mate_.

 

He repeated that mantra all the way back to his flat, up the stairs, and as he laid in bed right up until he fell asleep.

 

***

 

Everything changed on the Inception job. 

 

Eames could almost pinpoint the exact moment — Cobb revealed he'd lied to them and the possibility of their brains turning into mush in limbo seemed like a very real possibility — when Arthur looked at him and Eames _knew_. The point man was furious at Cobb, though he kept his anger in check for the sake of the job, but there was something else, too. He was scared _for Eames_. It was his name Arthur cried when projections fired at their car, and it was Eames who Arthur fussed over in the second level, helping the man secure his line.

 

 _Arthur cared for him_. Eames had assumed his obsession with Arthur was one-sided for so long that he simply couldn't process the information, so he buried it at the back of his brain and simply focused on not dying within the dream.

 

He assumed once they all woke, he'd be able to deal with the real-life consequences of loving Arthur, and maybe having the point man love him in return. 

 

But that didn't happen.

 

His felt foggy upon waking — a side-effect of the potent batch of Somnacin — and had to focus extra diligently on the most basic of tasks: smile politely at the customs agent, gather his bag. He stood by the luggage carousel, watching Arthur, and there was a split second when the point man looked at him that he should have _done something_ — maybe walk over to Arthur and say something smooth like _how about that drink now?_ Instead, he did nothing, and Arthur walked from the terminal, caught a taxi, and left.

 

***

 

He didn't see the omega for an entire year after Inception, and when they reunited, it was only because a job brought them together in Prague. Arthur regarded him with indifferent detachment, which was nothing new, but when the man failed to rise to Eames' gentle teasing, he grew worried. Something was wrong. Arthur seemed…out of sorts. He was distracted, forgetful, and moody. The other team members traded worried glances whenever a detail of the plan had to be repeated for Arthur's benefit. Normally capable of wearing six layers in ninety-degree weather, Arthur was now visibly sweating in the heavily air-conditioned office. 

 

It only occurred to Eames that Arthur was going into heat too late. By the time he got close enough to smell the omega, hired henchmen crashed into their working space and opened fire. They'd never learn who sent then — maybe the mark had grown wise to their plan and decided to take out the threat preemptively, or perhaps it was a rival team, or someone seeking vengeance from a prior job. After he scaled down a fire escape and found himself racing through the streets of Prague, Eames decided it didn't matter. 

 

Somehow — unsurprisingly — he found Arthur and they took off together, running and occasionally returning fire amid streets of shrieking tourists. When one of the goons set his sights on Arthur and aimed his weapon, Eames dove in front of him and lurched when the bullet tore through his shoulder.

 

"Fuck!" he bellowed, immediately wishing he'd said something else, or preferably nothing at all. What was the point of committing an act of chivalry if he was going to grouse about it afterwards?

 

"Shit, _Eames_ ," Arthur cried before he dragged the man down a narrow alleyway.

 

He felt lightheaded immediately and moved to sit among some rubbish. Eames tried to think logically. He'd been shot on his left side — by his heart — but the bullet hadn't pierced the organ. He didn't think. But it was a close thing, and when he glanced over his shoulder at the brick wall behind him, he didn't see blood. The bullet was still inside him — not a good thing. "Shit… _shit,"_ Arthur hissed, taking off his nice leather jacket to press it against the gushing wound. The point man was pale, his eyes wide, and Eames realized that this was the first time he'd ever seen Arthur look terrified.

 

"Hey…" he said softly, touching Arthur's hands and then his cheek gently. The omega blinked and looked at him, and Eames was dimly aware of the fact that Arthur looked like he might cry. "M'okay," he rasped, and when Arthur said nothing, he repeated: "Arthur…I'll make it." He had to fight to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head.

 

"Don't leave me, okay?" Arthur whispered before he passed out.

 

***

 

Eames awoke sometime later in a hospital and quickly learned someone, most likely Arthur, had admitted him under one of his aliases. A very grave-looking doctor explained the bullet had missed his heart by an inch, and he was a very lucky man. Eames tried to look like a bloke who wasn't accustomed to being seriously injured, and he knew he'd been successful in looking sufficiently terrified when the doctor patted his shoulder and told him he'd make a full recovery. 

 

When the medical professionals cleared him for release, Eames gingerly dressed in some hospital-issued garments and caught a taxi out front. He was sure Arthur had fled the country by now, but some nagging thought at the back of his head told him to swing 'round to the point man's rented flat just in case. His shoulder ached terribly as he ambled up the steps to Arthur's flat. The doctor had given him a prescription for painkillers, but he'd try his damnedest to heal without filling it because Eames didn't have a sterling track record when it came to abusing analgesics. 

 

He knocked on Arthur's door with his good hand and waited for an answer. Eames was unsurprised when only silence greeted him, and he'd almost turned to head back down the stairs when something crashed from inside Arthur's apartment. 

 

"Arthur!" Eames shouted and pounded his fist on the door. From inside, he heard the point man moan. Eames was prepared to do something dramatic like kick in the door, but when he gripped the knob and turned it, the door opened on its own. Something was obviously wrong. Arthur would never leave his door unlocked like that under normal circumstances.

 

The second Eames stepped inside the apartment and shut the door behind him, Arthur's scent hit him like a punch in the face and he very nearly staggered backwards. The room was sweltering and reeked of Arthur's sweet, citrusy pheromones. Eames almost tripped over the point man's overturned suitcase in the middle of the room. Clearly, Arthur had been in the midst of packing when something happened to him. From the corner of his eye, Eames saw something move and he wheeled around, fully prepared for a confrontation when he saw Arthur on his hands and knees beside the bed.

 

When Eames moved to help him to his feet, the omega practically hissed and pulled away from him. "Don't…don't…" he moaned miserably and when Eames gripped his arms, he was startled by how warm Arthur's skin felt. He was feverish, his dark hair damp and curling at the base of his skull. _Arthur was in heat_ , Eames reminded himself when another wave of his scent washed over him, causing his heartbeat to quicken. The forger pulled him up and dropped him on the bed, and Arthur immediately arched his back and writhed a bit, a soft moan escaping his lips.

 

Eames quickly looked away, feeling as though he was intruding on an intimate moment. Arthur had always been so composed and put together that seeing him squirm on a bed in nothing but slacks and a dress shirt felt like watching a burlesque show. "You're in heat," Eames said dumbly, not knowing what else to say or do, his heart nearly stopping when Arthur moaned again and parted his thighs. This wasn't right. Arthur wasn't in his right mind. He should go. He should _leave_.

 

"Eames," Arthur moaned as he reached for him, his eyes glassy and his cheeks flushed. He looked as though he'd just realized it was the forger in his room and not someone else — someone dangerous. Arthur was _asking_ for him, and Eames could only stand there, stunned. 

 

"I should…I should go," he murmured, unable to look away from Arthur as he undulated his hips in slow, lazy circles. Eames swallowed thickly. 

 

"No, please," the omega moaned and reached again. Eames instinctively took his hand into his own and squeezed it because Arthur needed him, and in his heart, he knew he couldn't leave. The forger bent down and kissed the back of Arthur's fingers, the simple gesture drawing another groan from Arthur.

 

"You're sure?" he asked, terrified Arthur would hate him in the morning.

 

The omega groaned, this time out of frustration. "I'm going to kill you if you don't fuck me."

 

 _Well, in that case._ Eames climbed on top of Arthur and pinned him against the mattress so he could smooth his hand across the omega's brow and push damp strands of hair off his forehead. "Shh, I've got you," he whispered and leaned down to kiss Arthur's brow.

 

"Hurts," Arthur whimpered and moved his head, trying to nuzzle Eames' hand.

 

"I know, pet," he soothed and leaned down to kiss him. It certainly wasn't how he envisioned their first embrace, but when Arthur parted his lips and allowed Eames' tongue to stroke inside his mouth, he quickly decided it was perfect, nonetheless. The alpha coaxed the sweetest little moans from Arthur, who squirmed under him and reached up to grip the sides of Eames' face, and then his shoulders. When his hand gripped the bandaged area of his chest, Eames winced in pain, and Arthur quickly pulled away.

 

"Fuck, sorry. I'm sorry," and he looked so distressed that Eames was immediately gripped by the desire to gentle him. 

 

"It's fine. Darling, I'm okay," he said, smiling to show he meant it. As if he'd let a little excruciating pain stop him from fucking Arthur for the first time.

 

Once convinced, Arthur nodded a little and reached up to unbutton the collar of Eames' shirt. The forger groaned when he leaned up and kissed the pulse of his throat and then lapped at the skin hungrily, moaning when he tasted the alpha's sweat. Unbuttoning Arthur's shirt took every ounce of his concentration, and when he got it open, Eames leaned down to kiss one of the omega's pert nipples, sucking it between his lips and tonguing the hard bud. Arthur thrashed beneath him, crying out because every inch of his body was throbbing and oversensitive. Eames was already hard from the minimal contact he'd had with Arthur, combined with the fact that he was currently in a room dripping with the omega's divine scent.

 

Eames unfastened Arthur's trousers and stood between his thighs so he could pull down the fabric, which is when he saw the point man's sock garters and felt his erection give an interested twitch. "Aren't these pretty," he purred, hooking his thumb under the elastic encircling his calf and snapping it against Arthur's leg. The omega moaned and draped his ankle across Eames' shoulder. 

 

"Eames," he moaned, too far gone to formulate a witty response.

 

The forger reached between Arthur's thighs and slid his fingers beneath his briefs so he could cup the area just under his balls. The omega was already soaking wet and when he pushed his thumb against Arthur's entrance, it sunk in easily. Arthur cried out and threw his head back, his hips rolling so he could thrust back against Eames' hand eagerly.  "Please…need you," he moaned, the other sock-clad foot moving to press against the bulge located at the front of Eames' slacks.

 

He withdrew his hand, slid the briefs down his thighs and tossed them aside, and fumbled to unzip his trousers, only in succeeding in pushing them off his hips before Arthur pulled as he simultaneously fell forward and found himself between the omega's thighs again. They kissed frantically, biting, licking, and moaning as Arthur reached to grip his dick and press the head against his wet hole. "Do it…do it.." he whispered frantically against Eames' lips, unable to properly kiss him as he gasped desperately. 

 

Though a tiny voice at the back of his mind told him not to, and they were being reckless, Eames obeyed and shoved his hips forward in one stroke, burying himself inside Arthur. The omega keened and pulled his legs up to his chest, spreading his cheeks wide so the alpha could thrust into him. Eames gasped when Arthur's inner muscles greeted him in a vise-like grip, and it took him a second to notice the omega had never stopped moaning and begging. He rolled his hips, groaning throughout the withdraw and push, and though he'd fantasized about this moment hundreds of times, he realized his legendary imagination had been no match for reality.

 

Arthur's flesh was slippery beneath his hands — covered in a sheen of sweat — as he touched his throat and gave it a little squeeze. They moved carefully and slowly for the first few minutes, simply adjusting to the sensation of Eames' cock buried inside Arthur, until the omega grew impatient and reached down to grip Eames' ass. "Fuck me," he ordered, his eyes nearly all pupil as he looked at the forger.

 

Bracing on his good arm, Eames thrust roughly into Arthur, delighting in the sharp, surprised cry that escaped his throat. The omega's eyes shut and his brow furrowed, his expression somewhere between pain and pleasure as Eames' hips collided with his ass. When the throbbing pain in his chest became impossible to ignore, Eames shifted positions and stood by the edge of the bed, draped Arthur's legs over his shoulders, and fucked back into his hole. From this position, he got to see all of Arthur, including his prick as it bounced against his stomach while Eames fucked him. Omega pricks were smaller than alphas', but they were a lovely shade of pink, and hyper-sensitive, especially during their heats. 

 

"Touch yourself," Eames commanded, transfixed on Arthur's hand when it dipped between his legs and gripped his dick, stroking it in time with Eames' thrusts. He could see a few beads of pre-come dribble out of the head and slide down the shaft, and the sight made his balls tighten slightly. 

 

"Oh, fuck," Arthur whined, squeezing his cock. "M'gonna come, Eames."

 

"Good, pet," he gasped. "Come for me, yeah?" He threw his hips forward sharply, until Arthur stopped using coherent words and a sustained keen tore out of his throat. He came in bursts across his chest and stomach, and Eames nearly joined him when his interior muscles locked around his length. 

 

"I'll pull out…" he rumbled, more to himself than Arthur — to remind himself that he was to not under any circumstances lose control of himself and spill his seed inside of the omega.

 

"No," Arthur moaned pitifully, reaching up to grab him and pull him forward. Eames forgot about the original plan when the omega kissed him hungrily, rolling his hips in gorgeous little movements so he could continue riding his cock. The forger was possessed by a sense of wonder that this was the same Arthur who dealt out smiles like they were a limited natural resource, who never touched others unless it was absolutely necessary, and who showed affection with snippy comments and scowls. How could this lovely, eager, passionate creature be the same man?

 

"Arthur…I have to," he whispered against his lips, fighting to remember where he was and what the goal had been. 

 

Arthur shook his head stubbornly. "No, please. _Please_ ," and the little minx squeezed with his inner muscles as if trying to milk Eames' cock. 

 

"Fuck, stop," he whispered, but there was no heat behind his words. He thought about how lovely it would be to find his release inside Arthur, which was only right because the omega was his. Arthur had always been _his_. The point man clung to him and continued to roll his hips seductively, slowly riding Eames' length. When Arthur leaned up to kiss him tenderly and whispered _fill me up_ against Eames' swollen lips, the alpha lost the last of his resolve. 

 

He grabbed Arthur's wrists, pinned him to the bed, and thrust roughly into him. The omega cried out, his voice breaking as he began to quake beneath Eames and the forger realized he was coming again. When he knew he was nearing the brink of his own orgasm, Eames grabbed Arthur and flipped him onto his stomach. Arthur shouted in surprise, but his objection transformed into a groan when Eames shoved his cock inside him again. The omega part of his brain took over then and Arthur scrambled to his knees and stuck his ass into the air, silently begging the alpha to take him.

 

Eames fucked him hard across the bed, continuously dragging the omega back toward him when his body jerked forward. Finally, he gripped his hips with bruising strength and buried himself deep with a roar. When he collapsed to the bed, the alpha pulled them onto their sides so he could hold Arthur that way, and then his cock began to swell, and Arthur squirmed a little in distress. "Eames…" he whispered, afraid. The forger gently stroked his brow and cheek, pushing damp hairs from his eyes so he could see him more clearly. Arthur definitely looked freaked out.

 

"It's all right. Bear down on it, love," he whispered, impressed he had enough brain capacity left over to do even that. When he pressed his hand to Arthur's chest, he felt the omega's heart beating rabbit fast, and it only occurred to him then that Arthur had never knotted before. Of _course_ he hadn't. He leaned down to kiss along the side of Arthur's throat, soothing him gently until he stopped growing and began to come in a series of waves, and Arthur moaned softly. 

 

It felt perfect — glorious, exactly what they should have been doing since he'd first laid eyes on Arthur all those years ago.

 

For the life of him, Eames couldn't remember why he'd ever wanted to do anything except take Arthur to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Jack.

The next morning wasn't a full realization of his worst fears, but it was close. Arthur was already dressed by the time he woke, and Eames propped up on his elbow to stare at him in sleepy confusion. 

 

"Where're you going?" he mumbled, only just managing to pry his eyes open.

 

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, and Eames noticed his suitcase was closed and propped upright. When he glanced around the room, he saw all of Arthur's possessions were gone, presumably stacked neatly within his luggage. The point man at least had the decency to look reluctant that he'd been caught in the process of leaving. "I have a job lined up…in Tokyo," he murmured as he patted his suit jacket, probably to make sure he had his wallet and passport. "I rented this place for a few more days, so you can stay…if you want."

 

Eames stared at the omega as he awkwardly made chit chat, and wondered if Arthur actually thought this was how normal people conversed after they had sex. "Thank you, Arthur. That's ever-so-kind of you," he replied, voice soaked with sarcasm.

 

Arthur winced and sighed before he gripped the handle of his suitcase and tilted it onto its wheels. "Thank you..for helping me out," he said vaguely, his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Eames sat up, propped his back against the headboard, and folded his arms across his bare chest. He levelled his gaze on the point man, and idly wondered if Arthur had _ever_ had the birds and bees discussion. He seemed to have no idea about knotting, certainly didn't know how to manage cycles, and now he looked as though he wanted to die simply alluding to sex.

 

Eames didn't know much about Arthur, but he did know the man had been an orphan and joined Cobb's team early on. The foster care system was not a good place for omegas—too many unsavoury types willing to sell them to predatory alphas—and heaven knows Dominic Cobb never sat Arthur down to explain the changes in his body. If he didn't think it would end with a pen through his eye, Eames wanted to ask if last night had been his first time with an alpha.

 

Instead, he shrugged a little. "Happy to be of assistance," Eames smirked in order to compensate for feeling rejected and desolate at Arthur's departure. Last night had been a mistake born from a moment of desperation, but one fuck didn't make them mates. Arthur made that perfectly clear. The point man said nothing else as he wheeled his suitcase from the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

 

 

***

 

He returned to Mombasa to lick his wounds and engaged in a legendary bender with Yusuf, who was always game to be his right-hand man in debauchery. Eames didn't hear from Arthur for about a month, and then one night—out of the blue— he received a text message from an unknown number.

 

_Can you come to Tokyo?_

 

His immediate impulse was to feel annoyed. Was Arthur seriously texting him with a request for an international booty call? He replied: _Who is this?_ just to be an asshole. A minute passed before his phone lit up with another word bubble:

 

_Eames, please_

 

He stared at his phone for a long time and then sighed, rotating the device in his hand as he thought. Eames was angry with Arthur, but they also had a long, complicated history, and the point man had bailed him out of more tight spots than he could remember. It wasn't Arthur's fault that he was an emotionally stunted orphan who didn't know squat about sex and mating. Yes, the omega could be a bit of a twat, but he also possessed sharp intelligence, fierce loyalty, and he was exactly the man you wanted covering your back in a hairy situation. Plus, he'd been a glorious shag, and Eames wouldn't mind an encore performance—even if he had to travel through several time zones to have him.

 

 _Be there ASAP,_ he texted.

 

His linen suit was rumbled and creased in all kinds of unflattering ways by the time he reached Narita International Airport and took a taxi to the address Arthur had texted—some ridiculously overpriced hotel in the heart of Tokyo that was all glass and clean lines—totally Arthur. Eames rode up in the elevator to the fourteenth floor, strolled down the hallway to room 1478, and wrapped on the door. _Shave and a haircut…two bits._ Then he waited.

 

When Arthur yanked open the door, Eames blinked in surprise. The point man looked awful: pale, eyes bloodshot, face gaunt. 

 

"Hello, darling," he greeted cautiously and glanced over his shoulder into the room to make sure the point man was alone.

 

"Hey," Arthur muttered and turned to walk back into the room, without so much as inviting Eames inside. The forger stepped into the room, closed the door, and looked around. Arthur's room was in disarray, which was very unlike the normally fastidious point man. His gaze paused on an archipelago of porcelain shards scattered across the carpet by the telephone—the remnants of a vase, it looked like. 

 

When Arthur followed his gaze, he grunted. "I…threw it. I gotta call housekeeping, so they can…" he trailed off, sighed, and sat on the edge of the bed so he could lean against his thighs and rub his face.

 

Something was clearly very wrong.

 

"Arthur, are you all right?" Eames asked, already knowing the answer, but unsure of how else to proceed.

 

Arthur laughed humorlessly. "Uh, no. I'm not. Actually, I'm pregnant," he said and looked at Eames. The omega appeared as though he hadn't slept in ages—huge, dark bags draped beneath his eyes.

 

Eames felt like time stopped, and he could actually feel the blood drain from his face, leaving him lightheaded and confused.

 

"You're sure?" he asked, just to say something— _anything_.

 

The point man smirked, but much like his laugh, it lacked any genuine mirth. "Yeah, Eames. Pretty sure. I started throwing up a couple days ago, so I got a test, and…yup. Pregnant." 

 

"And it's mine?"

 

Arthur shot him a glare so fierce he immediately apologized. "Right. Sorry. Sorry…I'm…surprised."

 

That defused the situation a bit and Arthur sighed. "Yeah, me too," he said as he rubbed his kneecaps. "I decided I'm keeping it. I'll take time off from work to have the baby, and then hire a sitter when I go back to work," he rambled, his gaze fixed ahead of him at the wall as if he was talking to himself and Eames wasn't even in the room. 

 

The forger blinked and shifted his weight to his other leg. "Can I say something?" he asked.

 

Arthur pressed his lips into a very thin line, like he'd known Eames would want to interject into his carefully crafted plans, but had secretly hoped things would progress smoothly anyway. _Well, tough shit_. "Yes?" he asked, his voice so level and professional that Eames knew he was screaming internally.

 

"Right, well, that's my sprog you've got inside you," he said and pointed in the general vicinity of Arthur's stomach. "So I want a part in his…or her…life."

 

Arthur sighed wearily and shifted on the bed, his bare toes digging into the carpet. "Eames…look, I lived in homes with couples who…really shouldn't have been raising kids. They always thought they could make it work, but it's awful. It's bad for the kids and it's bad for them."

 

He quickly became annoyed. Arthur seemed to have rushed to the conclusion that Eames wouldn't insist on being involved in this decision, and worse, if he was in the child's life, he'd somehow be a terrible partner and muck up everything.

 

"Yeah, I know, Arthur," he snapped, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. "You mean like a father who drinks too much and beats your mother? You think I want to be like that?"

 

The omega didn't respond, but Eames saw a muscle twitch in the corner of his eye before he looked to his hands, which were clasped in his lap. His posture screamed regret, but rather than vindicated, Eames felt miserable. Arthur looked small and too thin, and he wanted nothing more than to rush out and ply him with expensive food. Eames walked to the bed and knelt beside it so he could lay his hands across Arthur's.

 

"We're not doomed to repeat that business, love. Not just because it happened to us," he whispered.

 

Arthur sighed and turned his palms so their fingers could lace, and he squeezed the forger's hands gently. "I don't know, Eames. This is…big, you know? And we just slept together once. I don't want you to feel shackled to me."

 

He couldn't help the smirk that gripped his lips. " _Shackled_? Darling, surely you've noticed I've been after your virtue for ages."

 

Arthur laughed suddenly and smiled—dimples and all. "I noticed, yeah," he said and watched when Eames leaned down to kiss his hands. "Omegas are supposed to stay at home with the kids," Arthur added quietly. "But I don't want that, Eames. I don't want to make beds and scrub the floors my whole life."

 

Eames shrugged. "So I'll stay at home." He didn't see anything wrong with housekeeping, but he understood where Arthur was coming from. Omegas were expected to surrender their autonomy once an alpha impregnated them, but Arthur had always been fiercely stubborn when society thrust expectations upon him. 

 

"That's not how it works," Arthur sighed. "You're an alpha–"

 

"So what?" Eames interrupted. "Honestly, since when do you care what people think about you, or me, for that matter?" he asked and released Arthur's hands so he could touch his face instead. To his great joy, Arthur leaned into the touch slightly and the worry lines smoothed from his brow. 

 

"You really want this?" he asked, eyes uncertain as he gazed at Eames, and the forger's heart clenched when he realized Arthur was probably used to people saying they wanted him before ultimately rejecting him—as was often the case in the lives of foster children. 

 

"I do, Arthur. I _really_ do," Eames said. He shifted on his knees and tugged Arthur forth gently. When the point man leaned down, he pressed their lips together in a soft, chaste kiss. Arthur sighed against his mouth, but it sounded more like relief than exasperation. "I've got your back, darling," he whispered. "'Until the very end."

 

 

***

The first pregnancy was difficult—not just because it took a physical toll on Arthur, but because Eames had to convince the omega to take time off from work and remain largely sedentary in their new home. Eames bought the house in California on a whim, and because he thought a warmer climate would be good for Arthur. Plus, the house was sweetly domestic and had three bedrooms that could serve as master bedroom, a nursery, and perhaps a study. He'd been worried that Arthur would tease him because there weren't any shoji screens or hand-painted wallpaper to be found in the ranch-style house, but when Arthur stared out the sliding glass door in the living room that led to the backyard pool, he beamed at Eames.

 

"I always wanted a pool growing up," he said, and Eames knew he'd made the right call.

 

Arthur was consistently sick and unable to climb out of bed during the first month of pregnancy. Eames found a doctor specializing in omega pregnancies, who miraculously made house calls, and essentially lived with them over the next few months because Eames called him so frequently. Doctor Ford was an elderly man, and he wasn't impressed in the slightest that Eames showed what a concerned mate he was by fretting over Arthur's every waking moment.

 

"Mister Eames, this is normal," he repeated for the hundredth time after Eames reported Arthur usually started the day with a mad sprint to the bathroom so he could vomit into the toilet. "The first pregnancy is rough. His body is adjusting and every sensation is new and scary, but believe me, I've delivered a lot of babies. This is normal," he emphasized the last word when he gripped Eames' shoulder and squeezed surprisingly hard for a man of his age. "Please stop calling me when I'm on vacation with my family."

 

"Right," Eames mumbled bashfully. "Right, sorry."

 

 

***

 

Eames probably went overboard the first couple months. He painted a gorgeous mural of forest creatures on the wall and ran out to buy the most expensive, highest-rated crib he could find with a mahogany wooden frame he knew would please even the critical aesthetic eye of Arthur. Then he baby-proofed the entire house, partitioned off the pool with a gate, and stocked the cabinets with fresh, one hundred percent organic food, and cooked all of their meals just to be sure anything that went into Arthur's stomach was free of pesticides and chemicals.

 

It was when he suggested Arthur wear natural fabrics because some of his other clothing was probably treated with all kinds of nasty chemicals that the omega finally put down his foot and insisted Eames go work a job.

 

"Go. Please. You're driving me insane," Arthur groaned even though Eames was being a sweetheart as he rubbed his feet on the couch. "And we're not using washable diapers because that's gross, so get that thought out of your head right now."

 

Eames pouted. "Fine. I'll take them back to the store, but darling, _you need me_ here," he insisted and pressed his thumbs into the arch of Arthur's foot until the  omega groaned happily. 

 

"I need you to go away for a little bit. Just so I can remember I like you." When Eames frowned, Arthur nudged him a bit with his foot and smiled. "I'll be fine. I just need a little space, okay?"

 

The forger nodded a little as he ran his thumb across Arthur's slightly swollen ankle. "Of course, love."

 

Leaving, it turned out, was a huge mistake.

 

Eames regretted it immediately, mostly because the job was shit with an extractor more unreliable than Cobb, for Christ's sake, a bloody terrible architect, and a point man so bumbling and inadequate that he immediately missed Arthur with a ferocious urgency. His only comfort came at night when he Skyped Arthur on his laptop and heard about his day, and in turn, got to complain endlessly about the awful team.

 

"Honestly, there are no _professionals_ left anymore," he groused miserably, reclined in bed, the laptop balanced on his chest. "I never thought I'd miss Cobb," he sighed.

 

"What about me?" Arthur asked, adorable and huge on his screen as he leaned forward and flashed his dimples in front of the web cam. 

 

Eames sighed. "Of course I bloody miss you. I didn't want to leave, remember?"

 

Arthur hummed in the affirmative. "I've been feeling better," he said, changing the subject, probably because he knew Eames was right.

 

"Yeah?" he asked, distracted when Arthur bit his lower lip gingerly. 

 

The omega was quiet for a moment before a cheeky smile broke across his lips. "Want to see it?"

 

Eames immediately perked up. "Yeah, show me."

 

He saw a flash of the wall and ceiling as Arthur moved across the bed, readjusted the laptop so he was in frame, and knelt on the mattress. Eames could see he was in pajama bottoms and a loose t-shirt— his standard uniform lately. He liked seeing this side of Arthur—no designer labels, his hair slightly wild. The omega peeled his shirt off and turned a bit until Eames could see him from the side where there was now a small, but prominent bump on his stomach. 

 

A huge grin broke across his face. "Pet, look at you," he sighed as Arthur scooted a little closer so the forger could get a closer look at his stomach. "You're beautiful," Eames said, totally sincere. 

 

"Sure, you think that now when I have a cute bump," Arthur laughed. "Wait until I'm a whale."

 

"You'll still be beautiful, but with giant gorgeous tits," Eames insisted, honestly eager for that day to arrive.

 

Arthur burst out laughing and moved so his face filled the camera again. "You're sick," he said fondly. "How much longer will the job take, do you think?"

 

Any joy he'd felt dissipated the moment he remembered why he was in Scotland. "Too bloody long," he groaned. "We're crawling through things."

 

Arthur pouted, which he really didn't think was fair considering the omega had been the one to chase him from the country, but he couldn't really bring himself to feel resentful when he looked so cute. "I miss you," he sighed in a way that made Eames perk up a bit. When he hadn't been whining about Eames' finicky behavior or vomiting in the bathroom, Arthur had been breathtakingly horny in the first months of pregnancy. He'd always heard rumors about omegas' increased sexual appetite after conception, but it really had to be witnessed to be fully appreciated.

 

He'd be watching T.V. one moment, and the next, Arthur would be straddling his lap, squirming, and _begging_ for it. They had more sex those first couple months than he'd had in his entire adult life, so it had been one of his concerns upon leaving that Arthur would feel neglected in his wake, which is why Eames had purchased a toy for him to use if he felt desperate.

 

"I've been using Harold," Arthur said, a reference to the ridiculous name Eames had bestowed upon the vibrator. The omega bit his lip gingerly again and Eames watched, hypnotized. While he'd ostensibly bought the toy for that very reason, Arthur _using_ it had previously been hypothetical. Now, Eames imagined Arthur naked as he writhed in bed and worked the vibrator into his wet heat.

 

"Show me," he rasped, his voice rough. 

 

 Arthur grinned. "Right now?"

 

"Yes, right bloody now, you tease," he growled, and Arthur laughed, delighted as he scrambled across the bed and stretched out of view to grab the vibrator from the nightstand. Eames reached behind the laptop, gripped himself through his boxers, and rubbed the heel of his palm against his dick in anticipation as Arthur wiggled out of his pajama bottoms. "Let me see," Eames breathed, and even though the image quality was slightly pixilated, he saw the amused glance Arthur threw him. He liked to pretend those kinds of requests amused and annoyed, but Eames knew attention from an alpha secretly pleased him.

 

Arthur shuffled around on his knees and gave Eames a 360-degree view of his shapely form—the bump all the more visible when he was totally nude. Arthur's chest was still mostly flat, though there was general softness to him now that he'd begun to put on weight. Eames was hard just from the sight of him, and he hooked his thumb under the waistband of his boxers so he could tug them down and properly grip himself.

 

"Go on," he encouraged.

 

Arthur laid on his back and propped up his feet until Eames had a nice view of the area between his thighs. He cupped his balls and dick and lifted a little to reveal his pink, wet hole. "Fuck," Eames breathed and licked his palm so he could stroke himself without chafing. " _Fuck_ ," he groaned again as he began to jerk himself slowly. "Put it in," he instructed inarticulately, but luckily Arthur seemed to already be on the same page as he reached down to press the tip into his hole. 

 

He whimpered softly, and Eames realized the plastic must have been cold. The epiphany caused his dick to leap in his hand, his fingers tensed at the base to prevent himself from coming before Arthur. On screen, the omega steadily pressed the vibrator into himself and then shifted a little to get comfortable. He reached down to turn the base, and instantly, a buzzing noise filled the speakers. Arthur groaned loudly as he writhed on the bed. Male omegas had very sensitive prostates, but Arthur's had grown extra tender during the pregnancy. Sometimes, Eames could make him come just by fingering him, so he couldn't imagine what the vibrations were doing to Arthur.

 

His thighs spread lewdly as Arthur worked the vibrator into his hole, and the wet sounds of the breach coaxed groans from Eames as he stroked himself—helpless to do anything except watch his mate.

 

"I miss you," Arthur moaned suddenly and Eames felt a drop of pre-come slide down his shaft in silent agreement. He spread the moisture along his length and jerked a bit quicker. 

 

"Fuck, I miss you too, love," he growled as his fist slapped against his pelvic bone, suddenly filled with hatred for everything—the job, the miles between them, _fucking Harold_ —everything that wasn't Arthur and the baby. He could tell from the way Arthur's legs trembled and he thrashed on the bed that he was close, and then the omega reached for his cock, gave a series of rough tugs until he cried, and came across his stomach. Eames swore again beneath his breath and pumped his fist rapidly. He tensed, his body giving a single intense spasm—jaw locked as a loud groan escaped from between his teeth—before he came across his hand and the back of his laptop.

 

"Shit," he groaned and wiped at the mess before he gave up and collapsed on the bed. Distantly, he heard the vibrating stop and Arthur's laughter.

 

"What happened?" the omega asked, a little breathless.

 

"Came on my computer," Eames sighed, not really caring. He smiled when he heard Arthur's laugh again. By the time he summoned the strength to reach for the screen and tilt it down, he saw Arthur had tugged on his pajama bottoms again, and he smiled into the camera when he saw Eames' face.

 

"Come home soon, okay?"

 

"M'kay," Eames purred, sleepy and content, and unable to craft a clever rebuttal like: _I'm here because of you, you stubborn twit._

 

"I love you," Arthur said, and Eames' heart clenched painfully.

 

"I love you, pet."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack cometh.

He walked through the front door and barely got his suitcase to the floor before Arthur jumped him. Eames laughed and quickly moved to cup the omega's rear as Arthur wrapped his legs around his waist and mouthed at his neck. 

 

"Careful," he breathed, amazed Arthur could still move like that despite the presence of his prominent baby bump.

 

Eames slowly navigated them down the hallway and toward the master bedroom as Arthur attempted to undress him as he walked. He laughed and gave the omega's ass a gentle swat—just enough to make him moan, and deposited him on the bed. 

 

"I missed you," Arthur gasped, and he sounded a little surprised—maybe not that he'd _missed_ Eames, per se, but by the severity of that longing. Bonded mates hated to be separated, even for a few hours, let alone the weeks he'd been away from Arthur.

 

He sat down on the bed and kicked off his shoes. "Of course you did," Eames grinned, pleased, and reached down to pull off his socks. That's when Arthur scaled onto his lap part way—just enough to straddle Eames' thigh, and began to grind his hips against him. He could feel Arthur was already hard, and when the omega threw his arms around him, he moaned loudly. "Christ," Eames groaned and cupped Arthur's rear to pull him firmly against his leg, the baby bump pressed against his torso.

 

That's when Eames felt the baby kick—the _very first time_ he felt it kick, and he nearly shot off the bed in surprise. "Bloody hell!" Eames cried, eyes as wide as saucers as he stared down at Arthur like he was some kind of alien. Arthur remained in place, luckily, and smiled.

 

"Oh yeah, he's been doing that," Arthur said and grabbed Eames' hand to hold it against his stomach.  They had reflexively begun to refer to the baby as _he_ , even thought they'd deliberately remained ignorant about the gender. "It's usually when I'm moving around." 

 

Eames swallowed thickly and pressed his palm to the convex surface of Arthur's stomach. They were quiet for a couple beats before the baby kicked his hand directly, and Eames thought it felt like a message: _stop groping my dad, you pervert._ "Should we…not…?" Eames said inarticulately and nodded to the bed. "Will he feel it?" he whispered, genuinely concerned.

 

Arthur burst out laughing and swatted his chest. "No, you idiot. Do _you_ remember being in the womb?" While Eames honestly pondered that question, Arthur scrambled off his lap and proceeded to undress. Then he reached over and loosened Eames' tie and slipped it over his head. It was when he'd begun to unbutton the alpha's dress shirt that he noticed Eames was still deep in thought about the possibility his child's first memory would be his dad's cock plummeting towards him. "Eames," Arthur chastised softly and kissed his brow. "It'll be fine, and I _need you_ ," he emphasized, climbed onto the middle of the bed, and positioned himself on his hands and knees because Eames was a stubborn man, but he was still an alpha, after all.

 

When Eames glanced over his shoulder and saw Arthur stick his rear in the air, he scrambled to his feet, and shed the rest of his clothing. Arthur smiled into his forearm when he felt the mattress dip and Eames grip his hips. "You got over it I see. Glad to—" his snarky tone gave way to a throaty groan when his alpha thrust into him suddenly. "Ah, fuck," Arthur gasped, his forehead levelled against the bed as he arched his back. They'd had to fuck like this lately because Arthur was getting too big to comfortably lay on his back, or be on top, but he liked Eames taking him from behind—it was the only position where the alpha was guaranteed to hit his prostate with every stroke.

 

Eames paused to grab a pillow and stuffed it under Arthur's hips so his stomach wasn't crushed against the bed. He gripped the omega's waist and snapped his hips forward roughly, and Arthur clawed at the sheets for purchase. "Oh, fuck. Just like that," he whimpered, eyes shut and brow furrowed. He spread his already slick thighs as Eames fucked into him. 

 

"You're so wet," Eames groaned above the noise of his cock plunging into Arthur's soaked hole.

 

The omega couldn't reach down to grab his cock—not that it mattered, anyway. Lately, he could barely locate his dick under the swell of his stomach, but he could feel his erection curved against the baby bump, and he ground his hips forward to rub it against the sheets. He'd been thinking about this moment for so long that Arthur knew he wasn't going to last long—not after they'd teased each other via Skype for so long. When Eames reached down suddenly and cupped one of Arthur's breasts, he gasped loudly.

 

The breasts were a new addition, having appeared only a couple weeks ago. When he'd flashed them into the webcam, he'd honestly thought Eames was going to have a heart attack. Arthur's chest was extremely sensitive—partly from the expansion and partly from filling with milk. "Oh fuck," he whimpered again. "Don't…don't.." he begged, only meaning it a little bit because Eames fingers felt so good as they played with his hard nipple.

 

"Lovely little tits," Eames growled against his ear. His hips shoved forward to emphasize each word as he buried his cock inside the omega.

 

When he felt a few drops of milk seep out of his nipple and coat Eames fingers, Arthur lost it. He bucked helplessly agains the bed as he came, a high-pitched keen torn from his throat. After that, he was only dimly aware of Eames bucking atop him until he buried his length and began to swell. Arthur whined and wiggled a little when Eames gathered him and rolled them carefully onto their sides. The alpha kissed his temple and neck as he came, and Arthur savored the warmth and the sensation of being claimed.

 

Eames' heart hammered against his back, and Arthur watched the alpha rub his hand across the baby bump possessively. "Still thinks it's a boy?" Eames asked eventually. 

 

"Yeah," Arthur replied quietly and laid his hand over Eames'.

 

 

***

 

Eames decided he wasn't going to take any more jobs until after Arthur had the baby. He'd been angry with himself when he missed the first time the baby kicked, and he concluded that he wasn't going to be absent during future milestones. That was one of a series of decisions Eames made during the first week back home.

 

One afternoon, Arthur was folding laundry in the bedroom. It was one of the chores he'd insisted on doing just so he had an excuse to move around a little during the day. He couldn't put the laundry in the machine or get the clothes out, but he could fold the garments against the swell of his belly and put them in neat little piles on the bed. Then Eames would come in and put all the clothes on their respective hangers and in their appropriate drawers.

 

Eames walked in and watched Arthur until the omega looked up and smiled. "Hey," he said softly. The bedroom curtains were pulled aside, and the sun's rays poured in and cast the entire room in a soft glow. Eames smiled slightly in return and Arthur returned his focus to the laundry until the alpha approached his side and got down on one knee. When his attention snapped back to Eames, the alpha presented a little black velvet box. "What—" Arthur began, but Eames immediately cut him off.

 

"Right, look. I know you hate marriage, and cliches, and—just bloody let me finish, Arthur," he said when the omega opened his mouth to speak. Arthur's jaw promptly clicked shut, and he stared at him with wide eyes. Eames felt inexplicably nervous—more so than he'd felt in ages, and his anxiety had manifested in a slightly snippy tone. He hated making himself vulnerable. "I love you, and you love me, so why not?"

 

Arthur stared at him a moment longer. "Sorry, is that your proposal?" he grinned.

 

Eames laughed and bowed his head for a moment. When he looked back to Arthur, the omega smiled fondly at him. "Yeah, rubbish, wasn't it?"

 

"No, it was fine," Arthur laughed. "Just..angrier than I thought it would be," he said as he took the box from Eames and opened it. Inside laid a simple white gold band, an onyx stripe extended horizontally across the middle of the ring. It was beautiful—elegant, stylish, just like Arthur. "Oh," Arthur said, surprised, maybe because Eames hadn't managed to find a paisley wedding ring.

 

"And look," Eames said when he stood, took the ring from Arthur, and turned it so he could see the inscription on the inside: _Darling_. 

 

"Oh," Arthur said again, but this time his voice wavered, and Eames could see his eyes were coated with tears. "It's beautiful, Eames."

 

"So that's a yes?" he teased and reached to brush a drop of moisture from Arthur's cheek.

 

The omega smiled brightly when Eames slid the ring on his finger. "Of course," he whispered a second before they leaned toward one another and kissed.

 

 

***

 

Eames didn't have any family to speak of and neither did Arthur, so they didn't see a point in a huge wedding. When Eames suggested they invite Cobb, Arthur even shied away from that idea. He was nervous about news of their family situation getting out into the larger dreamshare community. They still had many enemies out there who weren't above using their child as leverage against them, and besides, Arthur said, Cobb had just settled into life with his family again. No need to uproot him with news that his former right-hand man got knocked up by his former forger.

 

It was for these reasons that they had a quiet ceremony at city hall, and Eames couldn't recall a more adorable sight than Arthur as he waddled up to the Justice of the Peace clad in a suit they'd had to have specially made because none of his other clothing fit him anymore.

 

Eames couldn't believe how short the ceremony was—two minutes at the most—and before he knew it, Arthur was his husband and they kissed.

 

After that, apart from the certificate of marriage and their rings, life continued on much as it had before, right up until the following week when Arthur walked into the living room and announced he'd gone into labor. That's when Eames felt a profound shift in the universe. In retrospect, he'd been an embarrassment, even though they'd planned for that moment for so long, and even though  Arthur had already packed an overnight bag. Eames still managed to rush about, flushed and breathless, needlessly worried about Arthur every step of the way to the hospital.

 

"Eames, it's okay," Arthur actually said at one point because he must have looked so wrecked.

 

Doctor Ford greeted them at the hospital. "Today's the big day," he said and smiled at Arthur, who looked much, much more composed than Eames. "You all right, big guy?" the doctor asked and clasped him by the shoulder. "Listen, if you feel light-headed during the delivery, sit down. I've had one too many husbands faint on my watch."

 

Arthur's labor was difficult, and lasted twelve endless hours, during which Eames rubbed his back and allowed the omega to nearly break his fingers when he grabbed his hand through the contractions. "I hate you," Arthur gasped and Eames responded with a kiss to his brow. "Get out," Arthur growled, and for a second Eames thought the command was directed at him until he realized the omega was addressing their baby. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Arthur's hair. Finally, Doctor Ford appeared and announced it was time.

 

Everything happened in a blur. Suddenly, an army of nurses appeared and wheeled Arthur out of the room, then ushered Eames into another room where they yanked scrubs and a mask onto him. One of them, the head nurse, he assumed, rambled off a list of commands about what he could and could not do in the delivery room. Basically, he was to stand beside Arthur and do nothing except hold his hand if the omega needed him.

 

"Arthur is having a cesarean, so that means the doctor has to cut him. Do you understand?" she asked and Eames nodded mutely in response. Yes, of course. Why wouldn't he understand that? The nurse stared at him, unimpressed. "Do you understand you'll see his blood?" Eames felt a little squeamish, but he nodded. Why was she asking him these questions? Apparently, the nurse picked up on the fact that Eames had no idea what was going on. "Arthur's file says you're an alpha. Alpha husbands sometimes have trouble watching deliveries."

 

Instantly, he understood. _Of course_. He'd always been fiercely protective of Arthur. Eames immediately thought of Hedley, and how his brain has switched offline the second he thought the omega was in danger. "I'll be okay," he promised, unsure, but hopeful he'd keep that promise.

 

By the time he got into the delivery room, Arthur was stoned out of his mind on drugs, but coherent enough to acknowledge him. "Eames," he smiled dopily. "Drugs are so lovely," Arthur murmured from his side of the operation curtain. When Eames dipped his head to the other side of the small partition, he saw Doctor Ford wiping down Arthur's stomach with disinfectant. 

 

"'Ello, darling," he whispered and gripped Arthur's hand. Suddenly, he felt extremely nervous. Eames had been braced for the birth of their child for months, but the operation part had always remained theoretical in his mind. The words _cut_ and _blood_ echoed in his mind. 

 

"You're so handsome," Arthur sighed, and Eames saw one of the nurses chuckle. "I love you," the omega said and Eames bent down quickly to kiss his brow. 

 

"I love you too, pet." 

 

Eames had been nervous about the idea of drugging Arthur, but the omega had levelled him with such a fierce look during their pre-birth meeting with Doctor Ford that he'd instantly shut up. He read Arthur loud and clear: _now is not the time for your hippie bullshit_.

 

It was really unfair alpha husbands weren't offered the possibility of drugging themselves out of their gourds, Eames thought throughout the operation, which only took about fifteen minutes. During that time, he kept his gaze locked on Arthur's face, and consciously decided not to look south of the curtain.

 

"Congratulations," Doctor Ford said suddenly, followed by a loud wail Eames quickly realized was the baby. "It's a boy," the doctor said as he walked the child—their _son—_ to an area to be cleaned up. He stood there, stunned, a stupid grin stretched across his lips beneath the surgical mask until he felt Arthur tug at his arm.

 

"Baby boy," Arthur cooed, still stoned out of his mind.

 

It took about forty-five minutes to remove the placenta and suture the incisions, during which Eames kept wandering over to where the nurses had surrounded his son. "You'll see him soon," one of them scolded and chased him back over to Arthur.

 

"You see him?" Arthur asked when he returned and Eames glared over his shoulder.

 

"These fascist nurses won't let me, but I caught a glimpse. He's gorgeous, my love. You did so well," he said and bent down to kiss his forehead again.

 

Arthur had to stay in the hospital for a few days after the procedure, which gave Eames plenty of time to torment the nurses until they let him hold his son and bring him to Arthur. They decided to call him Jack because, he explained, it was a proper lad's name— and it had been his grandfather's name. Doctor Ford explained both baby and father had done very well during the delivery, and Jack was quite healthy— all ten fingers and toes.

 

"He looks like you," Arthur said and smiled as he held the little bundle.

 

"You're just saying that because he came out with lips that take up half his face," he said from his spot on the side of the bed. He grinned when Arthur mock-scowled at him.

 

"Well, yeah, but he has your eyes and coloring too." Jack wrapped his little fingers around Arthur's thumb and the omega smiled brightly in response. "Think he's an alpha?"

 

Eames shrugged a little. "Can't tell yet, but I wouldn't be surprised. First-borns usually are."

 

 

***

He was convinced he'd get a ticket for driving too slowly back from the hospital, but Eames wasn't going to allow any vehicular bullies to pressure him into speeding with their precious cargo. Arthur sat in the back with the car seat to make sure Jack was all right, while Eames obsessively glanced in the rearview mirror to see them.

 

"Eames, we're going to get in a wreck if you keep looking back here," Arthur finally said, which motivated Eames to keep his eyes on the road the rest of the way.

 

The nursery was all set up for Jack's arrival, and Arthur and Eames ended up staring at him in the crib for a long time before they concluded he was a baby and probably not going to do anything astounding during his first few days on earth. Arthur collapsed in their bed and promptly fell asleep, which gave Eames plenty of time to do some chores and check on Jack every two minutes. When the baby fussed, he woke Arthur and brought Jack to him so he could feed. Eames took the baby again once he was full, Arthur passed out again, and Jack followed suit after Eames tucked him into the crib.

 

Arthur slept for _ages,_ and awoke only when Eames handed him a fussing Jack. Then the alpha sat beside him and watched as his son nursed. "I gotta use that breast pump," Arthur murmured, half-asleep while Jack went to town. "We can freeze the milk ahead of time." Eames nodded and gingerly took Jack into his arms once the baby was full. Arthur tucked away his breast and rolled back over to resume sleeping.

 

A few days later, Arthur emerged from the bedroom—his hair thrust in every direction—a confused expression on his face. "How long was I in there?" he rasped.

 

"Uh, seventy-two hours," Eames replied and handed Arthur a glass of water.

 

The omega blinked in surprise, but then accepted the glass, and gulped every drop. "Jesus," he said afterwards.

 

"Indeed," Eames replied. "Glad you're up now, though. Jack will want to feed soon."

 

"Jesus Christ," Arthur said again. "This kid loves my tits more than you do," he muttered as he walked toward the nursery.

 

"Impossible!" Eames called after him.

 

 

***

The first days were a blur of feedings, middle night screamfests, and endless diaper changes, and for a while, Jack's entire universe comprised only the six inches immediately in front of his face. When Eames got very close to him and made faces, Jack squealed in delight, but they couldn't interact much beyond that.

 

Within three months, Jack began to babble loudly. and he could lift his head when placed on his stomach. Finally, he was able to play with some of the toys Eames had gotten him, but only the ones that made noise when he rattled them. His son _loved_ making noise. Definitely an alpha.

 

He'd just put Jack down for a nap when Eames heard a splash from out back. He walked from the nursery, through the living room, and slid open the back door just in time to see Arthur climb out of the pool. A dark horizontal line ran across his lower abdomen—the cesarean scar having faded considerably over the past few months. His stomach was flatter—his breasts smaller, but Eames still thought he looked ravishing. He hadn't been able to leave the omega's side since he'd had the baby, and he'd ended up turning down countless jobs. Eames simply didn't want to leave their home. Not only did the house contain his entire world: his mate and his son—the space was a potpourri of heavenly scents. Comparatively, the outside world was too bright and smelled unpleasantly harsh. 

 

"It's cold," Arthur said as his teeth chattered and Eames picked up a towel from the patio table to wrap around his shoulders. 

 

"I told you," he scolded playfully and kissed a drop of water from Arthur's nose.

 

"I know. I just haven't swam in ages," Arthur explained as they walked back inside. Eames followed him into the bedroom, perched on the bed, and watched the omega shimmy out of his swimsuit. From the back, it was impossible to tell Arthur had just been pregnant. His rear was round and firm, and the dimples above his ass shone from the pool water. He looked gorgeous. When the omega turned, he caught Eames blatantly staring at him.

 

"Yes?" he teased, a cheeky smile on his lips.

 

Eames looked at his face. "Come here," he said and held out his hand. Arthur approached, and swayed his hips a bit because he was a minx and knew exactly what he was doing. He slowly straddled Eames' thighs and grabbed his collar.

 

"I have to feed the baby soon," he whispered against his mouth. He was still wet from swimming and quickly soaked Eames' pants and shirt, not that the alpha cared.

 

"Ah, then we should be quick," Eames murmured and nipped at his lower lip.

 

Luck was on their side because Jack chose that afternoon to sleep longer than usual, which gave Arthur plenty of time to ride his cock enthusiastically, and work up a nice rhythm so the omega's tits bounced as he bucked atop him. The mattress squeaked loudly and the headboard thumped against the wall, while the pillows tumbled to the floor and they clawed at one another. As was always the case when he fucked Arthur, Eames forgot everything—what they'd been doing five minutes ago, where they were, his _own bloody name_.

 

Like his infant son, his entire world was six inches in front of his face. Arthur. _Arthur_. 

 

"You feel so good," the omega gasped against his lips and rolled his hips lasciviously. 

 

Eames growled in response, gripped his ass, and spread the cheeks so he could slide his finger tips down the wet crevice and feel his cock thrust inside.

 

Had he been in his right mind, Eames would have pulled out—he wouldn't have knotted Arthur so soon after he'd just given birth, and had Arthur been more coherent, he probably would have insisted Eames do the same. Of course, they weren't lucid, and like the first time they fell together, they could think only of completion and how good it would feel to be bound together. 

 

"M'gonna come," Eames warned and Arthur simply moaned in response.

 

"Do it. C'mon," he encouraged and leaned back to grip Eames' thighs so he could bounce faster. 

 

Eames swore loudly and gripped Arthur's hips as he began to swell. The omega cried out when Eames flipped them and thrust deeply into him a few more times before the knot made it impossible, and that's when he felt Arthur coming between them, his cock spasming against his stomach.

 

He moaned helplessly as he filled Arthur and the omega stroked his back through the orgasm.

 

"Well, that was…unexpected," Arthur laughed beneath him, and when Eames looked at him, his mate smiled back—face sweaty and flushed. It was _always_ unexpected between them, since the first time, and every time following the first time they knotted. They were mates, drawn together by a gravitational pull neither of them could fully explain. All Eames knew was he wanted Arthur, and he always would, and somehow that attraction had heightened since Arthur had the baby. Maybe the explanation was simple biological factors, but all Eames knew was he couldn't leave him—not even for a few hours. Not anymore.

 

Of course, what neither of them knew back then was that was the moment Arthur conceived Rose.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The complexities of family.

The second pregnancy was easier in the sense that they knew what to expect, and Arthur's every little ache didn't send Eames into a panicked tailspin. Naturally, Arthur hadn't been thrilled when he found out he was pregnant again so soon after giving birth to Jack. In fact, he'd thrown the pregnancy test at Eames' head while shouting something about _goddamn alphas_ , but Eames had been able to soothe him soon after with gentle kisses and promises that he'd take care of him.

 

Before the baby bump started to show, Arthur had lunch with Cobb, and returned in a foul mood that Eames learned was the result of hearing dreamshare gossip. When he laid down on the couch, Arthur rested his head on Eames' lap and sighed dramatically.

 

"This is exactly what I knew would happen," he said as Eames stroked his hair. "I'm a stay-at-home omega."

 

"Nonsense," Eames said and ran his thumb along the spot where Arthur's brow had furrowed until the muscles relaxed. "You're a _temporary_ stay-at-home omega. You'll go back to work soon."

 

Arthur sighed again, and he clearly didn't believe that line of logic. Eames felt terrible. He'd made a promise to the omega early on that their lives wouldn't change profoundly once they had children. Obviously, that been a naive hope. _Of course_ their lives changed dramatically—they were forced to make all kinds of accommodations for Jack, and they'd have to do that again for their second child. Sometimes, Eames caught Arthur staring wistfully at his old suits, and he wondered what the omega was thinking about—if he was imagining past jobs, or just a time in his life when he was free of personal commitments and obligations.

 

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Eames. "I heard recently that the _California Ballet_ is staging a production of _Don Quixote_ ," he said, and Arthur's eyes instantly lit up.

 

"Really?" Arthur asked as he gazed up at Eames.

 

The alpha grinned and nodded. Maybe it wasn't a life of international crime Arthur had been missing, but rather a night out on the town, dressed in a stunning suit as he enjoyed fine culture.

 

"We can get a sitter, make a whole night of it," he whispered and ran his fingertip across Arthur's smile.

 

The omega kissed them and sat up. "Yeah, let's do it," he grinned and then bolted from the couch.

 

"Where're you going?" Eames called after him, laughing.

 

"I have to figure out what I'm wearing!" Arthur answered on his way to the bedroom. Even if the show was a week from then, Arthur's attire selection process was a complex scientific method Eames didn't even pretend to understand. 

 

A soft fussing noise drifted from the nursery and Eames stood to fetch Jack's milk from the freezer to begin thawing it.

 

***

 

Eames secured a trustworthy babysitter to watch Jack, hired a driver, and made a reservation at a five-star restaurant he knew Arthur had been dying to dine at. When Arthur emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a dark blue Yves Saint Laurent slim-cut suit that hugged his slender frame beautifully, he whistled appreciatively. Arthur paused, grinned, and turned so the alpha could appreciate the view.

 

"Well played, darling," Eames purred.

 

"Figure I should wear it while I still can," Arthur said, smiling. He was a few weeks into the pregnancy, but he still looked largely unchanged. All that would change in a couple more weeks. "You clean up nice," he said and gazed at Eames' slate gray suit. He'd made sure to slick back his hair and wear the burgundy tie Arthur bought him last Valentine's Day.

 

"Thank you, love," the alpha replied and pulled him closer so he could kiss him.

 

Rebecca walked from Jack's nursery then and cleared her throat awkwardly. "Um, hey," she said in greeting to Arthur. The teenage daughter of a neighbor, Rebecca had come with a mile-long list of references for her prior babysitting experience, and embarrassingly, Eames had called every single one—a futile exercise in redundancy, but he needed to be sure they were leaving their first-born with the best. "Jack's asleep, so you guys can go whenever," she said and then smiled when she looked at them. "You guys looks awesome."

 

"Why, thank you, my dear," Eames said and bowed while Arthur rolled his eyes.

 

"Thanks, Rebecca. Call my cellphone if you need anything," Arthur said as he walked to the door and peaked outside. "Our car's here, Eames."

 

The alpha picked up the house keys, threw a salute Rebecca's way, and they stepped out for the evening.

 

The restaurant was opulent—gorgeous in every conceivable way from the embroidered wallpaper to the gold chandeliers, and yet the elaborate details were largely lost on Eames because he couldn't stop looking at Arthur. They'd had a strange start to their relationship spurred by an unexpected pregnancy, so they hadn't had the chance to court one another. It was nice to be out on a date with Arthur, without worrying about being shot at, or fretting over Jack.

 

Out of their home, just the two of them, Eames was reminded how beautiful and brilliant his mate was.

 

Arthur was talking about the latest theory in the dreamshare community—imagined projections. "So the projections won't just be people you've met or seen, but you can basically create an endless army of made-up people." 

 

Eames' brows rose. "Won't be much need for forgers if dreamers can create specialized projections."

 

Arthur smirked, probably because he knew his mate was fishing for a compliment. "Of course we'll still need forgers. You can't fully _control_ projections, Eames. Although, there is a theory maybe we'll be able to one day…"

 

As Arthur launched into a theory he'd termed 'puppet projections,' Eames smiled fondly at him until the omega noticed and paused in mid-sentence. "What?" he asked, grinning.

 

Eames shrugged. "Just thinking about how lucky I am, pet. That's all."

 

***

 

_Don Quixote_ was wonderful, and Eames could tell Arthur was enjoying the experience. At one point, the omega gripped his hand, and when Eames looked over to him, he whispered _thank you_. Eames kissed his hand in response. At intermission, Eames fetched a flute of wine for himself and water for Arthur. As they sipped their beverages and discussed the show, they became momentarily distracted when a couple nearby began to bicker. The husband was bored and clearly making a case for leaving, and the wife seemed exasperated, as though it wasn't the first time they'd had the conversation.

 

"Think that'll ever be us?" Arthur asked under his breath, a wicked little smile on his lips. 

 

Eames shook his head. "No, darling. I'd happily follow you anywhere."

 

The second half of the ballet was better than the first, and by the time they were back in the town car, Arthur was positively floating. "That was so fun," he said, smiling as he leaned against Eames' side.

 

"We should do that more," Eames agreed. There was no reason their life as a couple had to end now that they had a child—children, soon. He hated the idea of Arthur's life being limited to the perimeters of their home, and while he knew some alphas preferred to keep their omegas safe at home, the thought of caging Arthur made him feel unspeakably depressed. 

 

They rode in silence for a while before Eames spoke. "You're happy, aren't you?" he asked, the niggling thought that had infected his brain finally surfacing.

 

Arthur looked surprised. "Of course. Why would you ask me that?"

 

Eames shrugged. "We didn't plan any of this, and we're making things up as we go along, but I just wanted to make sure you're happy."

 

The omega leaned his head against Eames' shoulder. "You make me happy. Jack makes me happy. Stop being an asshole," Arthur murmured, sleepy and content.

 

Eames grinned and kissed the top of his head. "Yes, my love."

 

***

 

Rose arrived about a year later, and Max followed a year after that. After their youngest was delivered, Arthur elected to have a procedure done that would prevent another pregnancy. Three children, they decided, was enough, and Arthur wanted to be able to enjoy his family. Back in primitive times, alphas rutted omegas endlessly until they grew too old to bear children or died in delivery. Doctor Ford warned Arthur was getting older, which increased the likelihood of complications during pregnancy, which frightened Eames enough that he enthusiastically supported Arthur's decision to have the operation. He couldn't stand to think of a life without his mate.

 

Besides, the omega had already given him three beautiful children—each perfect and brilliant. Rose was a practical child—only crying when absolutely necessary if she was hungry or needed a diaper change. Comparatively, Max was quiet—sometimes eerily so. He rarely cried or fussed, and when Arthur held him, the baby laid passively in his arms, whereas Jack used to kick and grab, and Rose gazed about curiously. In the early years, Max was Arthur's shadow, following his father from room-to-room as though the child feared he would disappear if he moved out of his view.

 

Whereas Jack and Rose adjusted to kindergarten relatively well, Max screamed and cried on his first day when he realized his parents planned to _leave_ him with a _roomful of strangers_. He carried on so badly that the principal of the school had to come and sit down with him. Principal Miller was a kind woman and handed Max a stuffed rabbit that he hugged to his chest as he sniffled miserably. 

 

"Good boy," she said encouragingly. "Your daddies will be back in just a few hours to get you. Why don't you say goodbye to them so you can go play?"

 

Max made a soft distressed noise, but he looked up at them eventually. "Bye, daddy. Bye da," he murmured.

 

Arthur put on a brave face until they were in the car and then he broke down crying. Eames didn't blame him. He _hated_ to see Max upset, largely because he was his son, but also because he looked like a miniature version of Arthur.

 

When he'd calmed down, Arthur wiped at his face. "I had a hard time…when I was younger," he explained. "I got shuffled around to different foster homes, and I always cried when I had to leave. It was just..really scary," he said as he gazed out the window.

 

"He'll be all right, pet," Eames said softly and moved a hand off the wheel to grip Arthur's knee.

 

***

 

As they grew, their children's dynamics solidified. Jack was obviously an alpha from an early age—faster and stronger than the other kids in his class, apart from the other alpha children. His half of the bedroom was scattered with certificates and awards from sporting competitions, and while he struggled academically, Eames soothed Arthur's nerves by saying Jack was almost guaranteed a sports scholarship to the university of his choice. College and professional sports were always dominated by alphas.

 

Conversely, Rose and Max were brilliant, but their daughter was more successful socially than Max. She had friends, and as a beta, when Rose looked at a problem, she immediately thought of a slew of solutions, but Max turned inward and grew quiet. A school therapist told them he was borderline anti-social, but they already knew that. Max didn't have friends and he preferred to stay at home with them to watch movies, use the internet, or read quietly in his room.

 

"He's happy," Arthur insisted one time when Eames brought it up to him. "Leave him alone. I was the same way when I was his age."

 

Max explained once that the other boys picked on him, probably, Eames concluded, because they were alphas and could smell that his son was an omega. 

 

"Just ignore them, baby," Arthur encouraged as he brushed the hairs from Max's face. "You just come straight home from school," he said and hugged Max tightly. Eames wanted to say that was poor advice, but that was the alpha part of his brain taking over. In his world, bullies only understood getting their asses kicked, but that simply wasn't a reality for omegas. Arthur—fierce, deadly Arthur—was a rare exception to the omega rule. Most omegas cowered from confrontation. Telling Max to come straight home was probably the most responsible advice they could give.

 

Luckily, as Jack grew older, he'd begun to put some of the other alphas in their place when he noticed them picking on his brother. Theirs was the trickiest relationship because when Jack wasn't playing the white knight for his brother publicly, he was tormenting him privately at home—stealing his toys and school supplies because he knew Max wouldn't stand up for himself. Jack clearly loved his brother, but as an alpha, he was still figuring out the limitations and proper utilization of his strength.

 

When Max finally snapped one day, he tackled Jack, who immediately rolled them over and started slapping his brother across the face. Eames nearly threw him across the room when he tore Jack off his brother, and he hadn't even had to raise his voice after that. Jack cowered, terrified, as Eames panted and stared fiercely at him. Even Max looked afraid, and he wasn't even the one in trouble.

 

"Don't you _ever_ do that again," Eames said quietly, a tremble in his voice.

 

Jack simply nodded. He never struck Max again.

 

The children settled into a routine, though occasionally (and inevitably) they butted heads, especially because Max and Jack shared a room. They were kids, so they bickered over everything, but things began to smooth out eventually. They were a _family_ , and as such, they had a daily system that he and Arthur had worked out to the very last second. Their mornings were elaborate choreographed routines in which Arthur guided the children in washing and dressing, and Eames prepared their lunches. 

 

Things had settled down so much that Arthur had begun to toy with the idea of going back to work—safe jobs, of course, but something that would allow him to exercise that brilliant mind of his. 

 

They'd only started to really discuss it seriously when Cobb showed up at their doorstep and everything went to hell.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack, Mr. Bolo, and Saito

Arthur's fingers curl into the fabric of Eames' shirt as he buries his face against his mate's shoulder and sobs. The sound is strange—part agony and part fury, and even though he can't see, Arthur can sense Dom and the children hovering nearby. He should be doing something—planning their revenge, but he can't move. He feels _paralyzed_ by anger that someone would dare enter their lives and snatch Jack, their first-born, from their arms. They're seated on the couch, and Eames rocks him gently like he's a baby, and Arthur can't think clearly until he looks up and sees Max and Rose seated on the adjacent part of the sectional, clearly terrified that their big brother has been taken, and now their father is falling apart before their eyes.

 

Rose's braid is draped across her shoulder and she plays with the tip nervously, eyeing Arthur as if willing him to snap out of his daze, while Max sits beside her, his small hands folded in his lap. His suit is ruined—rumpled and torn and the collar is smeared with a dark red liquid. 

 

Arthur pulls away from Eames suddenly. "Max, baby," he whispers as he shoots off the couch and kneels in front of his youngest. "Let me see," he cajoles, cupping Max's face and turning it so he can see the gash on his temple. Arthur vaguely recalls the sound of gunfire, and seeing Eames' rear window explode. The glass must have cut Max, and now that he looks closer at Rose, he sees tiny shards of glass buried in her hair. "Come on," he instructs, and takes Max by the hand, guiding them both to the bathroom.

 

As he passes Cobb, the man clears his throat. "Arthur, we really should—"

 

"No," Arthur interrupts, walks the children into the bathroom, and closes the door behind them.

 

Rose sits on the edge of the bathtub, while Arthur tends to Max. He flips down the toilet lid, seats Max on it, and kneels so he can gently dab at the wound with a Q-tip soaked in hydrogen peroxide, and make gentle soothing noises whenever the boy winces in pain. Max would have sat on that couch forever, and never have addressed his injury. Arthur realized a long time ago the boy never complained, but he didn't know if it was because Max was adaptable, or if he hated to make a fuss. Something rustles by the bath, and when Arthur glances in that direction, he sees Rose has freed her braid and is carefully combing glass from her hair, dropping the shards into the tub.

 

"I'm okay," she says after noticing her father's gaze.

 

Arthur nods and resumes tending to Max, cleaning the area, and then covering it with the smallest bandaid he can find in the medical kit. It's a tiny wound—a scratch, really, but the sight of it still makes his stomach cramp painfully.

 

"Where's Jack?" the boy asks suddenly, and Arthur freezes. 

 

" _Max_ ," Rose chastises over Arthur's shoulder, but he shakes his head to indicate the question is permissible. Rose must be curious and afraid too, but she knows her fathers are in the midst of a chaotic situation, whereas Max's only concern is why his big brother had disappeared.

 

Max looks as though he's fighting desperately not to cry as he nervously swings his legs from the toilet. Arthur tries to empathize, but he can't. He can't imagine what it would be like to be seven-years-old, and be chased from his home, shot at, and then realize his brother has been kidnapped. Arthur reaches forward to smooth back Max's hair because that used to calm him when he had nightmares. Max would lay between Arthur and Eames in bed, and Arthur stroked his hair from his forehead until he fell asleep.

 

"Is it my fault?" Max asks, voice trembling, a few tear drops finally freeing themselves from his lashes and falling against his plump cheeks.

 

Arthur quickly brushes away the tears and kisses his forehead. "Why would you ask that?" he murmurs, his heart tight and heavy in his chest.

 

Max sniffles miserably and shrugs as his spine hunches and chin drops. "I took too long getting in the car," he whispers, fingers gripping the hem of his jacket.

 

He again tries to enter the mind of his son. In Max's world, it's his fault Jack is gone because he took too long to get in the car, which prevented their speedy getaway. That isn't true, of course, but Max has a tendency to internalize blame for everything—rightly or wrongly, and in his world, Jack's kidnapping is his fault.

 

"Max," he says sternly, cupping the boy's face and forcing his son to look at him. "This is _not_ your fault, do you understand?" Arthur asks, feeling the agony part of his response give way to the anger. These men—these strangers—dared to enter his life, steal his son, and cause his other children pain. Max nods weakly in response, and suddenly, Arthur can think clearly. He stands and tidies up quickly. He disposes the Q-tip and puts away the medical kit and bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He makes sure Rose's hair is clear of glass, and washes the shards down the drain. As he works, Arthur formulates a plan. He'll call Rebecca to watch the children, and he'll empty the gun safe in the bedroom into a duffle bag. 

 

He will find the men who stole their child and make them very sorry.

 

Arthur opens the bathroom door and instructs Max and Rose to go wait in their bedrooms. He fetches his cellphone from his pocket and makes a quick phone call to Rebecca, and explains she'll need to watch the children for a few days. He offers to double her pay and give her free reign of the contents of their refrigerator, which seals the deal. He flips his phone shuts, walks down the hallway, and just as he reenters the living room, he catches the tail end of Eames talking to Cobb.

 

"—we'll leave when we—" Eames stops speaking when he sees Arthur over Cobb's shoulder.

 

Eames and Cobb are absolutely _crap_ at acting nonchalant when Arthur approaches them slowly, a scowl fixated on his face. "What're you two idiots planning?" he asks, feeling angry and slightly betrayed that they'd go behind his back to plan their departure, and why? Because he was some _unreasonable_ , unreliable omega, who couldn't control himself in the midst of grief?

 

Cobb clears his throat. "We, uh…we thought it'd be better if you stayed here with the kids."

 

"Oh, did you?" Arthur snaps, and catches Eames wincing out of the corner of his eye. "Right, because I'm the omega, is that it? I belong at home?"

 

"Arthur, it's not like that," Eames interrupts quietly—as though he could sense they were on the cusp of a fight they'd had many times before. Arthur was extremely sensitive about the issue of omegas' roles in society, particularly when it came to their participation in the workforce. Many believed omegas belonged at home in the position of caretaker, but Arthur had always disagreed with that assessment.

 

"Haven't I always been a good point man?" he asks, directing the question at Cobb, who looks surprised that he'd even ask something like that.

 

"Of course, you're the best, but—"

 

"And you," he goes on, turning on Eames. "He's my son, too. I have the right to be there when you find him. I have the right to hunt down those fuckers and be there _with you_ ," he seethes, his cheeks burning when Eames has the absolute _gall_ to _smile_ at him, like he's amused by this whole thing. "What's so fucking funny?" he hisses through clenched teeth.

 

"Nothing, my love," Eames murmurs, his gaze trailing across Arthur's face.

 

"You're not leaving without me."

 

"Never, my love."

 

***

 

The cops show up ten minutes later and take statements from Arthur and Eames. They lie about everything, and don't tell the police about Jack's kidnapping. The last thing they need is the cops getting involved and interfering with their mission. As Arthur stands on their stoop, he sees neighbors peer out their windows at the mess in front of their house—Arthur's overturned car, glass scattered everywhere. He gives a description of someone who doesn't resemble the man with the bolo tie in the slightest, and the cops promise to hunt down this fictitious person before they leave.

 

Cobb receives a text message a half an hour later with an address, they wait for Rebecca to arrive, and then they pile into Eames' car and depart.

 

The trip takes an hour, and brings them to the site of an abandoned mall.

 

"Well, this is sufficiently creepy," Eames remarks, seemingly callous at the surface, but Arthur can hear the chilly undercurrents. His husband is _furious_ , and ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

 

Eames parks the car, the three of of them pile out, and walk inside the building. The man with the bolo tie and his team are situated in what used to be the main foyer of the mall. Lawn chairs are scattered around the space beside the dead fountain. The men have formed a semi-circle around Yusuf and Ariadne, who both look terrible. Yusuf hasn't shaved in weeks, and Ariadne's eyes are bloodshot, as though she's been crying. Arthur can see they've already got Saito, and the man is splayed across one of the chairs, a line fixed in his arm. 

 

A pair of henchmen approach Arthur and Eames and quickly divest them of their weapons. One of them takes the duffle bag of guns from Arthur's hand with a smirk.

 

When Arthur's gaze slides further to the side, he gasps aloud and rushes forward. Jack is laid out on a chair beside Saito—also with a line embedded in his arm, also unconscious and plugged into the PASIV.

 

"What the hell is this?" Eames bellows—his voice loud and echoing back to them in the cavernous space of the foyer.

 

"Incentive," bolo tie responds.

 

"We don't know what kind of effect Somnacin has on children," Cobb says, his voice hard. Arthur's trembling fingers touch Jack's face—his brow, his cheeks. He looks peaceful, and he doesn't appear to be experiencing any distress. When Arthur looks up, he sees Yusuf standing nearby.

 

"He'll be all right," the chemist says softly, voice filled with sympathy. At the reassurance, Arthur relaxes minutely. Yusuf is the best chemist in all of dreamshare. If he says Jack will be okay, then he'll be okay.

 

"It's okay, baby. We're here," Arthur whispers even though the rational part of his brain knows Jack can't hear him.

 

"Terribly sorry to interrupt the family reunion," bolo says, "But we really need to get a move on with the operation."

 

Arthur blinks and stands, and when he looks to Eames, he can tell the forger is already on the same page.

 

"Are you joking?" Eames scoffs. "We haven't had any time to prepare. We don't even have a bloody _plan_."

 

Cobb nods in agreement. "Mister…" When bolo doesn't respond with a name, Cobb continues, "Anyway, the first Inception took months of planning. This is going to fail if we rush things."

 

Bolo shrugs, a gun cradled in his right hand. "My employer seems confident you'll be able to edit on the fly."

 

"Wait," Eames says and holds up a hand. "Just…a moment."

 

They throw together the vaguest of details: Cobb explains Fischer wants Saito's empire broken up, so they need to flip Inception on its head.

 

"I have become what I hate," Eames suggests for the idea they'll implant in Saito's brain.

 

"How do we remind him of Fischer?" Yusuf asks.

 

Arthur's eyes brighten. "The pinwheel. We'll use the same pinwheel. That will remind Saito of Inception, and the whole reason he initially wanted Fischer to break up his father's empire."

 

Eames frowns thoughtfully, but he nods. "That might work."

 

"Who is the contact for Saito?" bolo asks as he slips the gun into the waistband of his pants and rolls his sleeve.

 

Cobb glances at the PASIV. "You're going under?"

 

"Of course. To supervise," bolo sneers and nods to a couple henchmen—a tall, blond man, and a short, squat man with dark hair. "Along with some associates of mine. Now, who's the contact for Saito?"

 

Cobb's squint indicates he's not thrilled with the idea of a tourist accompanying them, but he gestures in the point man's direction. "Arthur. He's always liked Arthur."

 

Bolo smirks when he looks his way. "I'll bet."

 

Arthur can sense Eames tense up beside him, and when he glances at his mate, he sees _that_ look in his eyes—the expression that means he's itemizing things: weapons, agents, where to bury body parts.

 

"I mean he _trusts_ Arthur," Cobb clarifies.

 

Yusuf gives them the usual rundown: three levels, the powerful batch of Somnacin. "So do try not to die," he instructs helpfully, "Lest you drop into limbo until your brains rot."

 

The team lays down in their respective chairs and hooks up to the PASIV. Ariadne is last to hook up because she helps bolo and his goons insert the lines, and he can't be sure, but he thinks she's deliberately rough in doing so, judging by the pained winces she draws from the men. Arthur and Eames are situated on the chairs to either side of Jack, and right before bolo pushes the button, he reaches over and rests his hand over his son's. When he looks up, he sees Eames watching them, and the forger's lips quirk up into a weak smile.

 

"See you in a bit, darling," he whispers.

 

***

The restaurant is lavish—perhaps overly opulent—nothing Saito would necessarily select to dine at in the waking world, but close enough. It was the best Ariadne could do with so little time. Arthur is dressed in a dark blue suit, and he realizes he's cradling a fork in his right hand. They're eating…duck, it looks like. He smiles politely across the table at Saito, who smiles in return.

 

"Arthur," Saito says softly, surprised—maybe a bit confused.

 

"Hi," Arthur responds quietly, his voice hoarse. He realizes then how utterly fucked they all are. There is _no way_ this plan is going to work. Before them, their glasses tremble a bit on the table because Saito already senses something is wrong. When he looks across the room, he doesn't see bolo or his henchmen. It sometimes takes tourists a longer time to find the meet-up point in a dream, but he does see Yusuf and Ariadne seated tensely at a corner table, attempting to ignore the projections staring at them, specifically Ariadne.

 

"I'm dreaming," Saito remarks, and Arthur is so completely unsurprised that they're instantly busted, he immediately nods in surrender. Of course Saito knows. _Of course_. When he gets over the wonder of lucid dreaming again, Saito examines Arthur's face. "You're in trouble."

 

Arthur swallows thickly. He'd forgotten how quick Saito is, and sometimes it can be a little intimidating. "They have my son," he whispers, afraid the projections will somehow overhear them and alert bolo—even though that's impossible.

 

Saito nods thoughtfully and sips his wine. He winces and lowers the flute to the table. "Whoever is dreaming has no taste in wine," he remarks and Arthur grins. It's true. Ariadne can't tell the different between a $3,000 bottle of Petrus and supermarket boxed wine. "I know it can't be you," Saito teases, his voice lowered. 

 

Arthur smiles shyly and bows his head. There was a time—before Eames, during Inception, when Saito had expressed clear interest in pursuing a less-than-professional relationship with Arthur. They were working closely together, oftentimes into the early hours of the morning, and while Saito had never done anything overt, he'd touched Arthur more than necessary—on the elbow as they walked, a hand perched on his lower back as he guided Arthur through a door—little gestures that showed his interest.

 

He'd enjoyed the attention—he'd actually returned it, but then the Prague job happened, and he went into heat, and Eames…

 

The thought of his husband pulls him out from under the tide of nostalgia. "My son," he reminds Saito, and the man immediately sobers.

 

"Of course. You have a family now. Jack, Rose…Max," he lists the name casually, and Arthur is again unsurprised that Saito has been keeping tabs on him. He imagines the man has files on all of them somewhere hidden away in a massive vault. "I must say…I was surprised to hear you married Mister Eames," Saito says, the teasing tone returning to his voice.

 

Arthur smirks. "You're not the only one," he says, his gaze flitting to the entranceway in time to see Eames emerge, as if summoned by Saito speaking his name. He looks devastatingly handsome in a black Hugo Boss suit, and Arthur finds himself deeply grateful that Ariadne has spent so much time recently in Paris, the world's fashion capital. She may have crap taste in wine, but she now knows how to dress a man. When they lock gazes briefly across the room, Arthur is suddenly focused again on the mission at hand. "They want me to put you under and convince you to break up your energy company."

 

Saito smirks. He might even look a little impressed. "To perform Inception on me."

 

"Yes," Arthur says, turning his wine glass slowly in front of him. 

 

"And they are using your son as leverage," he adds, less jovial and more serious this time.

 

Arthur nods, lips pursed tightly, and after watching him thoughtfully for a moment, Saito shrugs. "Then you must put me under."

 

He stops turning the glass and looks up, brows raised. "But…Saito, they want to plant an idea in your mind. You'll be inviting these men…into your mind," Arthur adds redundantly, unsure how to properly emphasize the terribleness of this plan.

 

Saito looks completely unfazed at the prospect. "Let them try," he says, standing suddenly and gesturing for Arthur to lead the way to the next drop spot. "After you."

 

Eames does his best to remain professionally aloof when they pass him in the entranceway, even though Saito is being cheeky and keeping his hand pressed to the small of Arthur's back. He slips away from the embrace as quickly as he can, but when he glances Eames' way, he can already tell the forger is annoyed. They walk to the coat check closet, which Ariadne has built spaciously enough to comfortably house the three of them as they lay down by the PASIV. The plan is that Yusuf and Ariadne will hold the first level should the projections grow rowdy, and Cobb and bolo will join them on the second level whenever they finally arrive.

 

Part of him wonders if Cobb deliberately delayed them somewhere to buy Arthur more time. He realizes his hands are shaking when Eames takes the line from him and carefully inserts it into his vein. Arthur watches him—the serious line of his full mouth, his bright eyes. "You look nice," he comments softly, not caring that Saito is laying right there, probably smirking at them.

 

Eames grins, always delighted when he manages to get Arthur to act unprofessionally. "Why, thank you, darling," he comments before laying down.

 

Arthur follows suit, looks at the ceiling, and then reaches over to hit the button.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The job.
> 
> POV jumps around a bit in this one.

The hallway seems to flicker and waver beneath Eames' feet, and for a moment the forger fears the entire dream will collapse. It only occurrs to him later that Cobb must have come on-line later—nearly too late, and is fighting somewhere to stabilize the dream. He imagines Mr. Bolo, his cronies—possibly Jack, too— _and_ the extractor piled atop them in the coat check room one level up and smirks. What a mess. This entire business is _mad_ , and doomed to failure.

 

Somehow, he'd become separated from Arthur and Saito after they dropped down to the second level, but Eames isn't alarmed. That sometimes happened. All he had to do is walk around long enough, and he's bound to run into the other men.

 

As Eames walks down the hallway, he passes an open door, and freezes in his steps when he hears someone moan from inside the room. The voice is familiar. _Arthur_. Eames turns on his heels and slips into the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Though he'd been in a generic, if slightly posh, hotel a split second ago, the interior of the room instantly transforms into their bedroom back home—right down to the smallest detailing in the curtains and crown molding. But Eames barely has time to take in those trivialities because his eye is immediately drawn to the room's centerpiece: a naked, writing Arthur positioned atop the bed.

 

The room's air is heavy in his lungs, like someone has left the shower running on hot in the adjacent master bath, and he can't think clearly—can't remember with full purpose why he is in their home, how he got there, and then he forgets to care about those details when his gaze fixates on the gleaming streams decorating the insides of Arthur's thighs. The omega gazes at him as he squirms, his fingers wrapping around the length of his hard cock as he strokes slowly.

 

His mate pants heavily and reaches for him. "Need you," he moans softly, just as he had that evening in Prague all those years ago. A nagging thought presents itself at the back of his mind. He isn't _supposed to be here_. He is supposed to be somewhere else. He is supposed to—

 

Eames stops thinking of those irrelevant goals when Arthur's thighs drop open invitingly. Instead, he crosses the room and climbs atop his mate, kissing his collarbone and neck, drawing sweet little moans from Arthur. The omega writhes and claws at his suit, fighting to peel the jacket off his shoulders in the process. The last relics of brain activity sputter to a halt when blood rushes from his head, south, to the nether regions of his body. He doesn't know why, but it feels like he's been separated from Arthur for ages, and he feels desperate as he kisses his mouth and hungrily bites at his lips.

 

He pulls back and buries his nose and mouth in the crook of Arthur's neck, inhaling deeply, needing to smell him so, so badly. Arthur's fingertips trail down his back and rest against his the base of his spine, near the handle of his gun located beneath the waistband of his trousers. It's then that Eames realizes he can't smell anything. Arthur doesn't exude his usual scent. The knowledge causes Eames to pause and draw back slightly. His head clears and he quickly determines none of this makes sense—the bedroom, _Arthur_. Eames imagines the faces of his children: Max, and then Rose, and finally Jack.

 

 _Jack_.

 

He feels Arthur's fingers curl around the grip of the gun, and the movement shatters the last fragments of Eames' hesitancy. He grabs Arthur—but, _not_ Arthur—violently by the neck and shoves him back to the bed. _Not Arthur_ , he reminds himself as he punches the other forger across the face, _Not Arthur_ , he thinks frantically as they begin to fight and wrestle for leverage. Eames rolls them off the bed, and manages to land in mount on the floor. He punches the other man across the face again, and again, trying not to focus on how the other man looks _exactly_ like Arthur, but he's _not_ hurting the real Arthur. _He's not the real Arthur_.

 

Eames is breathing heavily by the time he staggers to his feet and cocks the gun, aiming it at the fraud. The other forger laughs, blood bubbling from his mouth as he finally drops the illusion. It's one of Mr. Bolo's henchmen—the tall blond bloke. He's still laughing, but the sound is high-pitched and slightly hysterical, and it's setting Eames' nerves on edge. He kicks the man once sharply in the ribs, just to knock the wind out of him and stop the horrible sound.

 

"Fuuuck," the man groans, rolling onto his side. When he looks back to Eames, he's grinning wolfishly again. "Did I get him right?"

 

"Shut up!" Eames shouts, unable to keep his voice in check, totally shaken from the brief encounter.

 

"I had to fudge some of the details, but…once you've seen one bitch in heat, you've seen them all, you know?" the man asks, bursting into laughter again.

 

Eames aims the gun at the man's head, just so they're clear on his intentions, and the other man immediately sobers. It occurs briefly to him that he's about to shoot a man who is following orders, who did not mastermind the kidnapping of his son, and who in all likelihood he would have never had grievances against prior to this precise situation. _Still_. _He shouldn't have mocked Arthur._ "You going down there?" the man asks, nodding to the floor, but Eames knows what he means. _The next level_. Eames nods and the man breaks out in a wide grin. "You're all gonna die down there."

 

This time, Eames doesn't hesitate. He shoots the bastard right in the forehead, sending him to rot in limbo.

 

***

 

By the time he locates the correct room, the rest of the team—minus Yusuf and Ariadne (first level)— are connected to the PASIV. Jack is there too, and Eames crosses the room to sit by him on the floor and touch his brow. He looks all right—not banged up in the slightest. Eames glares at Mr. Bolo's face, nonetheless. Then he looks at Arthur. He's close enough that he can take the point man's hand into his own and bring it to his lips so he can kiss the backs of his fingers. Arthur is still wearing their wedding ring, and Eames gazes at it for a moment as he thinks.

 

There must have been a reason Bolo sent the other forger to distract him. Maybe he doesn't want Eames to realize something bad is happening on the third level. Technically, his job is to guard the team from projections here—in the hotel, but he is suddenly seized by the disturbing thought that the hotel isn't really where he's needed. 

 

***

 

When Arthur awakes on the third level, he's in another hotel room, but it's different than the second level. This one is more spacious, and he jolts to awareness when he realizes one of Bolo's henchmen, the shorter one, is standing on the balcony, staring at the street down below. Arthur straightens up slightly, his head resting against the foot of the bed from his place on the floor.

 

"Dad?"

 

Arthur scrambles to his knees and crawls around the bed where Jack is huddled against the wall. A raw cry tears from his throat when he grabs his son and grips him tightly, and Jack shakes against him as he cries and claws at his arms for purchase. 

 

"Are you okay?" he gasps, grabbing at Jack's face to see him after they've separated. His face is unbruised, and other than the tears, he looks exactly as he did before. "You're okay?" he asks again, stroking back his hair and touching his face, partly afraid his son will vanish if he let's him go.

 

"I'm fine. Dad, I'm okay," Jack says quietly, nervously glancing over the bed in the direction of the balcony.

 

When Arthur looks in that direction, he sees the henchman standing just inside the room, staring back at them. Bracing his back agains the wall, Arthur fixes his best scowl on the man. "Where's Saito?" he asks.

 

"With the boss," the man responds, walking forth slowly and eyeing him in a way that makes Arthur's skin crawl and instinctively tighten an arm around Jack.

 

When the other man doesn't say anything else, but instead stands there, looming over them, Arthur climbs to his feet. Though the henchman is on the shorter side and squat, he's still got a couple inches and maybe thirty pounds on the point man. "Take me to Saito," he orders steadily.

 

The man smirks in response. "Uh, no. Boss says you stay here. Him too," he says, nodding to the floor at Jack.

 

Arthur steps in front of his son so the other man is forced to look only at him. "How long are we supposed to sit here?" he asks, annoyed. 

 

It's apparently one question too many because the man surges forward and grabs him by the neck, slamming him down to the bed in one smooth movement that knocks the breath out of Arthur's lungs. He's rusty from being out of the field for so long, and for a second, he panics, and can't think of a counter manoeuvre. The hesitation costs him, and the man grabs his wrists, pinning them above his head. When he releases his throat, Arthur gasps for air, and it's only then that he becomes aware of Jack screaming and hitting the man's back.

 

"Fuck off!" the henchman growls, shifting slightly so he can violently shove Jack backward into the wall. 

 

The boy lands with a loud thud and Arthur immediately knees the man in the stomach. "Hey!" he shouts, operating without a clear plan— his only clear intention to get the man's attention off his son and back to him. "He's just a kid, moron," Arthur snarls, attempting to strike the man across the face, but the lackey easily catches his wrist again and holds his arm to the mattress. 

 

"Ah ah ah," he scolds, leering down at Arthur, grinding his hips suggestively against Arthur's thigh. From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Jack move, and barely has time to register what's happening when his son charges forward and slams the hotel room's telephone against the man's temple. The skin on the side of his face instantly opens and blood pours down the his cheek and splatters against Arthur. The man shouts in a combination of agony and fury, and grabs Jack by the collar, throwing him to the ground. "You little piece of shit!" he bellows.

 

Arthur hurls himself off the bed and instinctively covers Jack's body in case the man tries to hit or kick him. "Stop!" Arthur shouts, unsure of who he's directing the order at because Jack is _still_ struggling against him, and it occurs to Arthur that, even though his son is young, he's still an alpha, and he's _pissed off_ a stranger is touching his dad so familiarly. "Jack, stop," he hisses in warning right before the man drags him away from his son. 

 

The man throws him onto an ornately carved oak chair and wraps the cord of the telephone around him and ties it to the back so he's secured in place and unable to move. "You sit right there," he growls, tying the cord extra tight so it cuts into his wrists. "And when the boss is done with Mister Saito, you and I are going to have some fun, sweetheart," the man whispers, so close that his breath moves the hairs on the side of Arthur's head. He shudders reflexively and looks over at Jack, who stares back with wide, terrified eyes.

 

"It's okay," he says softly, smiling slightly. Jack looks unconvinced, but he's quiet now, huddled against the wall with his knees drawn to his chest. "Your daddy will be here soon," Arthur whispers, only after the henchman has moved back out to the balcony.

 

***

 

Cobb glances at his wristwatch and then looks back to the-man-without-a-name as he looms over Saito. The man—his former client, now mark—is seated calmly on the bottom step of the museum's grand staircase. 

 

He can still visualize the gist of the city square's promenade. Arthur hasn't built entirely from the memory of a prior op, but he's borrowed enough from the Thailand job for Cobb to know the museum is at the southend of the long street, lined with tall buildings that make for ideal eagles' nests for snipers. At the north end, a tall hotel — the _Chez_ , something or other. He can't remember, but that detail doesn't matter. Cobb knows Arthur will be in the hotel because that's where the point man had been during the last job. They hadn't worked together in years, but Cobb can still read Arthur's mind as though it is his own. It's why, at one time, they'd been the best team in the business.

 

"I thought the key to Inception is subtlety," Saito remarks calmly, ever the cool customer.

 

Cobb can't help but smirk because, yes, that's true, but he's already lost control over the situation, and he-who-shall-not-be-named fucked their plans. Now, he's cornered Saito at the bottom of the staircase, and —what?—plans to muscle the billionaire tycoon into breaking up his empire? _Amateurs_. Cobb stands aways back, observing the disaster-in-the-making when Eames suddenly appears at his side.

 

"What the hell?" he hisses. "Who's watching the second level?"

 

Eames doesn't look overly concerned as he eyes Bolo and Saito. "It's stable and the projections are calm. Where's Arthur?"

 

Cobb pinches the bridge of his nose because he _really_ can't believe the unprofessionalism of everyone involved in this job. First, Bolo fucks their plans, and now Eames has abandoned the second level. "In the…damn..hotel down the street," he sputters, wondering how he could possibly relocate his family quickly enough to save them all once the job goes to hell, and Fischer, and Saito, and probably God himself comes after all of them. Bolo is still talking to Saito, and Saito somehow manages to look dapper and sophisticated whilst sitting on the marble step.

 

"You'd just better hope it stays stable—" he starts to say, turning to address Eames, but the man isn't there. In fact, he isn't anywhere in the foyer. Cobb swears beneath his breath and darts for the entrance, Bolo shouting at his back.

 

"Cobb, goddamnit! Where are you going?"

 

Cobb runs outside and pauses at the top of the steps when he sees Eames darting down the center of the empty promenade, a perfect target for snipers. 

 

"Eames!" he calls out as loudly as he can, his voice ricocheting off the buildings. "Eames!" he cries again, louder, until his vocal chords are raw. He doesn't shout for the forger's benefit because he knows Eames isn't going to even consider turning around. He's shouting to warn _Arthur_. _Eames is on the way…and he's going to get himself killed_.

 

***

 

"Eames!" 

 

Arthur's head snaps up and he stares, transfixed, at the henchman's back as he stands on the balcony. He's sure that's Cobb's voice, but he can't imagine why he'd be calling for the forger. Unless…

 

 _Stupid bastard_. Arthur pulls at his wrist restraints, but the cord doesn't give an inch. _Eames._ Eames is coming for them. He hears the henchman whistle low, a little impressed noise as he swings a rifle upward to rest on the concrete rail of the balcony. "Look at this stupid son of a bitch," he crows, laughter in his voice. "Goddamn. Well, points for ballsiness, I guess."

 

Arthur can see it now: Eames, charging up the promenade, unshielded— a perfect target. His heart hammers in his ears as he thinks. "Hey!" he shouts, simply hoping to distract the man long enough for his mate to find shelter, or something, but he knows Eames won't do that. The man knows his son and partner are held up in the hotel, and nothing will dissuade him from his goal now. Likewise, the sniper has his target, and he ignores Arthur's cry as he positions the forger's skull in the crosshairs.

 

Jack whimpers behind him, and the soft, defeated sound launches Arthur into action. He rocks onto his feet and throws himself back violently, the chair's frame shattering beneath his weight. Something snaps inside his chest—probably a rib, but he keeps moving. The chairs falls to pieces beneath him, and the henchman wields around, rifle in hand, probably intending to shoot Arthur. The pointman grips one of the chair's legs and spins around, burying the nails in the man's calf. 

 

A terrible, broken howl tears from the man's throat and he aims the gun down at Arthur and shoots.

 

Arthur knows he's hit immediately when his shoulder jerks backwards and pain explodes through his chest and arm. Jack screams, and Arthur can see him scrambling to hide and covers his face so he doesn't have to watch his father die in front of him. What he couldn't possible know, of course, is that Arthur has been shot before, and he knows how to fight through the pain. The point man kicks the man's feet out from under him and then slams the heel of his shoe directly into his nose, shattering the bones. 

 

As the man rolls on the ground, moaning and cupping his face, Arthur yanks the gun from his hands and shoots him in the back of the head. Distantly, he can hear Jack screaming for him, but Arthur is operating from muscle memory now. _Target secured_. _Cover the man in the field_. He kneels by the balcony and aims the gun's sight along the promenade, checking the windows for snipers. After the adrenaline dips, he realizes that's a pointless exercise given that this is his dream and none of his projections would shoot Eames. 

 

"Dad! Dad!" Jack cries, and only then does Arthur drop the gun and collapse on the balcony, his back propped up against the railing.

 

"M'okay," he says, even as blood soaks the front of his white dress shirt. He knows instantly that he's gravely wounded. He's losing too much blood, too quickly, and his vision blackens at the edges. "M'okay, baby," he says again, forcing himself to smile thinly. Eames will be with them soon, and he can get Jack out of here.

 

He's surprised to see Cobb with Eames when his mate finally comes charging up the staircase and into the room. "Arthur!" Eames shouts before he sees him on the balcony and kneels beside him, tearing open his shirt to check the wound. Arthur doesn't look at it, but judging by Cobb and Jack's reactions, it's bad. Really bad.

 

"You'll be fine," Eames lies, and Arthur can't help but smile fondly at him.

 

"I love you, okay?" he whispers, possessed by the knowledge that he absolutely has to say the words now because time is running out. The floor beneath them trembles and Arthur hears objects falling off the bureau and nightstands inside the hotel room. The dream is collapsing because he's dying. When he glances over Eames' shoulder, he sees Jack gripping Cobb's side. His son looks terrified. "I love you," he whispers again. 

 

" _Arthur_ ," Eames snaps, shaking him, trying to keep him awake a little longer. "Arthur, look at me," he orders, and the omega tries to obey. He pries his eyes open and looks at Eames' face. He's never seen his mate look so afraid, and for a second, Arthur thinks maybe he can fight through it. Maybe he can make it. He'll try anything to keep that expression from Eames' face—the one that indicates how terrified he is at the prospect that they'll never see each other again, and instead Arthur will gradually waste away in a hospital bed somewhere until his brain slows down and finally, one day, shuts down completely.

 

He touches Eames' face gently to outline the shape of his mouth and trace the lines on his face. He won't get to see his mate grow old. He won't see his children grow up. Arthur knows this now, and he wishes he'd crafted a grand final speech, but he hasn't, and he doesn't know what to say. He's tired and weak, and the world is blackening at the edges. "M'glad," he says to Eames, who stares back at him, afraid and on the verge of tears because he also knows this is goodbye. "M'glad we had time."

 

***

Saito calmly watches Dominic Cobb race from the museum, and when his captor temporarily turns away to call after the extractor, Saito rises to his feet.

 

The man wheels back around. "You _sit_ your ass back down," the taller man snarls, eyes wide and wild. He sticks the barrel of his gun right in Saito's face, a few inches from the tip of his nose.

 

Saito stares back at him, unshaken. "No, I don't think so."

 

A moment passes where his captor looks amused, and perhaps a little impressed by his hostage's brashness. He smirks and tilts his head as a large bird might while examining a particularly stubborn worm. "No?" he asks, the amusement quickly draining from his voice. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"

 

"I know who I'm talking to," Saito says, his voice deafening in the tomb. Even the other man looks surprised at the boldness of his proclamation, and he takes a step backwards. Saito follows him, stepping forward once, and again, unafraid of this small man and his gun. "Harlan Swanson," he says, smiling serenely as the man pales and swallows thickly. 

 

"How do you know my name?" he rasps, the gun hanging from his hand limply at his side, forgotten.

 

This is typical. Saito has been in enough negotiations to know when he is not facing a truly equal opponent. This man, if he can be _called_ a man, is not worthy of his time or patience. "I am Akio Saito. I am worth sixty billion dollars. I own half of Japan," he responds simply. "I know everything."

 

Swanson backs away slowly, shaking his head in disbelief. "Bullshit. Fischer said you didn't know shit. He said—"

 

"He lied to you, Mr. Swanson. And don't bother running. You and your men are already dead," Saito says as he straightens his tie.

 

Swanson pauses then, his brow furrowed, eyes mirroring the desperation Saito once saw in the face of a rabbit his father had trapped on Okunoshima Island. "What do you mean?"

 

Saito begins to think of other matters: rescheduling the business meetings he's missed during this unpleasantness, crushing Fischer once and for all so this problem doesn't rear its ugly head again. Swanson is nothing—he is a bug beneath Saito's boot. He is as good as gone, disposed of in the most efficient way possible. "I am the wealthiest man in Japan," Saito explains. "Did you really think no one would notice my disappearance?"

 

When Swanson says nothing, he continues: "I have a small GPS tracking device inserted at the base of my skull, just under the skin," Saito explains, touching the spot at the back of his neck. "In the event of my disappearance, I have a personal SWAT team tasked with following the coordinates and killing the men responsible. In this case, you and your men." Saito glances at his wristwatch. "And they should have arrived two..two-and-a-half minutes ago. You're already dead, Mister Swanson. Your brain just hasn't shut down yet."

 

Swanson drops the gun to the floor. It echoes loudly. He runs from the museum, and Saito lets him. It doesn't matter where he goes now. 

 

***

 

Eames clutches Arthur in his arms and presses his hands to the wound in his chest as though that will stop the flow of blood. But nothing can stop it. The entry wound is huge, and the blood gushes out from the sides of Eames' hand. He can only helplessly watch the rivulets flow down Arthur's stomach and side. He's seen enough injuries to know this is fatal, and nothing will stop it, but he can't let Arthur go, and he can't let Jack watch hopelessly. So he tells Arthur to fight, and he holds him, until Arthur's chest stills and he turns very pale, and it's over.

 

He keeps rocking with Arthur in his arms and his cheek presses to the side of his mate's face. He can't let go—not even when the building begins to collapse around them, and he hears Cobb screaming his name.

 

Finally, Eames looks at Jack, who clings to Cobb, and shouts in terror as the world falls apart around them. "Get him out of here!" he barks, nodding to Jack.

 

"Dad!" Jack cries, but Eames refuses to look at him. If he looks at his son, he'll lose his resolve and flee the dream with him, and he can't do that to Arthur. He can't leave his mate behind. _Until the very end_ , he'd said, and a man is only as good as his word—even if that man is a thief.

 

"Cobb!" Eames shouts. "Get him out of here! Now!" The concrete foundation cracks beneath him, and the windows above and below them twist and shatter. The end is deafening, and thankfully—mercifully, he can't hear Jack anymore as Cobb drags him from the room. 

 

With his foot, Eames nudges the rifle closer…and closer…until he grabs it and aims the barrel under his jaw. He struggles for a moment to get his shoe off and then hook his toe around the trigger. Dimly, he's aware he should be afraid. He's potentially condemning them both to a lifetime in limbo until they're brain dead, but all he can see when he closes his eyes is the back of a slim, dark-haired young man standing at a bar.

 

 _I'm coming, darling. Hold on_.

 

His toe trips the trigger, and Eames falls into darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Limbo

When he awakes, the sun is beating down on his cheek, and the other half of his face is jammed against something wet and coarse. The waves rolling across his back, soaking the fabric of his jacket, clue him in first. Eames is on a beach somewhere—limbo, he remembers eventually when he looks up and sees strange clay cliffs extending above him. _I am in limbo and none of this is real_ , he reminds himself as he stumbles to his feet and pats the back of his trousers. 

 

Everything is soaked and ruined, and his gun is gone.

 

Eames dips his fingers into the pocket inside his jacket to discover the poker chip—his totem—is also gone. He immediately thinks of Rembrandt's _Storm of the Sea of Galilee._ He too is on a tiny ship, cast out to sea during a vicious storm, except he doesn't have Jesus on his side. He only has Dominic-bloody-Cobb racing about one layer up, hopefully not getting his first-born killed. 

 

 _Arthur_.

 

The thought immediately snaps him out of his daze. Eames trudges along the sandy beach face, wincing when water sloshes loudly in his shoes. He stoops down to untie the laces, kicks them off, then peels off his socks, and when he straightens up again, Mallorie Cobb is standing before him.

 

"Hello, Eames," she purrs softly. 

 

He's completely stunned and extremely unnerved, so he doesn't speak for a couple beats. She looks exactly the same, or at least how he remembers seeing her for the last time. Mal is dressed in a pair of denim shorts and a pretty white blouse—chiffon, probably, that billows slightly in the breeze. 

 

"Mallorie," he responds in greeting, keeping his tone casual. _I am in limbo and none of this is real._ "Thought you'd be in Cobb's head, not mine," Eames continues jovially as he resumes walking along the beach, this time unencumbered by his waterlogged shoes.The wet sand sticks to his feet and the hems of his slacks, and for a ridiculous moment, he thinks about how annoyed Arthur will be with him when he sees the destroyed suit. He smiles slightly at the passing hallucination.

 

Mal follows him at a distance, but then gradually narrows the space between them until they're walking shoulder-to-shoulder. "I'm part of your thoughts, too," she responds in her melodic accent. "And Arthur's."

 

Eames stops dead in his tracks and wheels around, gripping Mal by the arms. "Where is he?" he growls, all the light and joy drained from his voice. For her part, Mal looks unafraid, but that only makes sense. Eames' brain knows he'd never strike a woman, especially Mal, and so this shade possesses that knowledge too.

 

"Keep walking," she says playfully, a wicked grin on her lips. 

 

Eames smirks and releases her at once. He keeps walking, knowing that is the only way he'll eventually find Arthur, but the longer he walks, the more apparent it becomes that the beach is endless. Somehow, the cliffs are even higher, and the horizon moves further away. Though he knows it can't be possible, it feels as though he walks for days. Several times, he stumbles, and nearly faints, but he manages to right himself eventually and lumber onward. All the while, Mal watches him passively, expressing neither concern nor sympathy for his plight.

 

The sun is hot—so hot, and Eames tears off his jacket, and when he sweats through his dress shirt, he unbuttons and discards that too. Eventually, he trudges along dressed in only his undershirt and slacks, and he's still sweltering, the fabric sticking to large swathes of his skin. His skin goes from hot to burnt to blistering, but there is no way to shield his face.

 

He reaches up to touch his jaw, and feels stubble growing from his skin. Eames knows he was clean-shaven when he first washed up on the beach. He looks up and squints at the sky that is so, so bright with its unrelenting sun that never sets, but when he peers closer at the sky, he sees three identical globes glowing above the earth. _Three suns_.

 

That explains the heat, anyway.

 

"He's trying to find you," Mal remarks from his side. "He wants to illuminate every crevice so there's no where for you to hide."

 

"Do you know where he is?" Eames asks weakly, his voice hoarse. He wants to plunge his head into the water and drink, but knows the salt will only dehydrate him further.

 

"I know what you know," she sings to a familiar tune. _Shave and a haircut…_

 

Mal takes him by the arm, and for a moment, Eames is distracted by her strength because she's physically _pulling_ him upward. He realizes eventually he must have nearly passed out because his feet move jerkily to support his weight again. Eames knows he has to keep walking. He has to keep moving. He has to—

 

A pair of ruby lips press to his ear then. "Do you know what it is to be half of a whole?"

 

"Yes," he gasps desperately. _Yes_.

 

 

***

 

Eames stands waist deep in grass that has never met a mower's blades. Mercifully, the trailer in front of him partially blocks out the suns' rays, and he notices the three globes are lower in the sky. Time has passed, but when? How long has he been standing here? Something pulls him forward, like there's an imaginary cord affixed to his chest. He ascends the stairs to the camper and tries the door, and when it swings open readily, he steps inside and shuts it behind him.

 

A man and a woman are standing in the main room, screaming at each other. The man towers over her, and sticks a finger in her face as beads of saliva shoot past his lips, and she gives back as good as she gets, but Eames can't make out the words. It's all noises and horrible screeching, and he immediately feels the urge to run from the room—specifically down the short hallway to one of the bedrooms. 

 

When he moves through the small kitchen area, the man and the woman freeze and look at him.

 

"Who're you?" the man asks gruffly.

 

"M'here to fix yer water heater," Eames responds in a spot-on American southern accent.

 

The projections—or maybe shades, they must be shades if they're this deep in limbo—stare at him for a long time before the man nods. "All right then."

 

As soon as the man looks away, Eames can walk again, and he is drawn to the door at the end of the hallway. When he pushes open the door, he sees an old black and white television with rabbit ears on the floor and a small boy seated before it. Some old film is playing— _License to Kill—_ Timothy Dalton-era James Bond, from the looks of it. Eames leans in the doorway and watches the movie for a bit before he remarks: "Personally, I always preferred Roger Moore."

 

The television's screen cracks, and when the film stops playing, the fight in the next room is again audible. At the loud noise, the boy gasps and dives for his bed, scrambling underneath it.

 

"Bugger," Eames grumbles. He crosses the room and crouches beside the bed, tugging aside the comforter, so when he leans down he can see the child. A young Arthur looks back at him—he can't be more than five-years-old. "Max—" he begins instinctively, and has to pause to correct himself. " _Arthur_. I'm sorry, mate."

 

Arthur makes a soft broken sound when his foster parents' voices raise again, and covers his ears. When he pinches his eyes closed and begins to rock gently, Eames knows he's lost. "Arthur," he says softly, reaching for him, but some unseen force drags him backwards suddenly into the shadows.

 

 

***

It's Christmas, but it's Christmas in California, so there isn't any snow, but Arthur still makes an effort with the tree and ornaments and tinsel everywhere. Eames remembers he nearly broke his bloody neck balancing on a ladder outside, stringing colorful lights along the house's frame. But he didn't really mind. Eames is a complete sucker for Christmas—every part of it, from the garish decorations to the presents to the food and traditions. 

 

He watches his family, including Arthur and himself, mill about the kitchen Christmas morning. They let the sprogs open one gift each that morning, mostly because Max and Jack woke them at five o'clock in the morning, foaming at the mouth in excitement. Rose got a journal, Jack a super soaker, and Max got a firefighter's helmet because this was the year Max was _obsessed_ with everything firefighter-related. He'd also get a toy firetruck and a firefighter costume, but those gifts were still wrapped and placed under the tree that morning.

 

Max sits at the kitchen table in his helmet, picking at his eggs as he eyes the tree, and specifically the gifts, longingly. He's five-years-old. "I'm done," he declares and pushes away his plate, which is still full of food. 

 

Arthur shoots him a disbelieving look and pushes the plate back towards him. "I don't think so, buddy." He's adorably rumpled, dressed in a robe, his hair unkept and laying haphazardly across his crown. Eames rarely sees Arthur in such a ruinous state, so the image burnt itself lovingly into his memory.

 

Their youngest grouses and resumes picking at his food, whilst his older brother wolfs down his entire plate at an alarming pace. "Done!" he shouts, and leaps up from the table to rush into the living room. Eames laughs, and when Arthur frowns at him, he holds up the boy's plate as proof. He did indeed eat every last crumb. Arthur's only mistake was failing to amend that the children should eat at a _human_ pace. 

 

"I'm done too, daddy," Rose remarks a moment later and pushes her plate forward for inspection.

 

"Go ahead, sweetheart," Arthur says and stacks the plates.

 

Max looks miserable, as if offended by the very idea he needs a caloric intake to survive, as he pushes and prods his food. Finally, Eames takes pity on him. "Go on then, ducky," he says affectionately and gently pinches one of Max's plump cheeks, which dimples when he smiles triumphantly, climbs off the chair, and hurries into the living room to join his siblings. Arthur glares half-heartedly at him until Eames leans forward to kiss the scowl from his face. "It's all right, darling. He'll get hungry later and I'll fix him something."

 

Arthur gets the digital camera and snaps photos all morning, documenting the many, many gifts bestowed upon the children. When the festivities wind down, and the children are somewhere in the middle of the room, buried under mountains of wrapping paper, Eames slides up behind Arthur in the kitchen and wraps his arms around his waist. "Merry Christmas," he whispers and kisses the side of his mate's neck. This was the year Arthur got him a pair of gorgeous custom-made gold cufflinks, and Eames countered with a pair of cruise tickets to South America. But they hadn't traded those gifts—not yet—not when Eames held him and swayed gently from side-to-side.

 

"Ew, are you guys kissing?" Jack calls from the living room, sounding legitimately horrified.

 

"Yes, shamelessly," Eames says, smiling when he feels Arthur vibrate from laughter. "How can I resist? Did you know your dad is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen?"

 

Someone, probably Jack, starts gagging. When he glances up, he sees their eldest throwing aside wrapping paper, probably in pursuit of more presents. "Ugh, _yes_. Like a million times."

 

"Did I ever tell you how we met?" Eames asks, though the question is more for Arthur's benefit. He half-whispers it against his mate's cheek, nuzzling and kissing him when he feels Arthur smile.

 

"Oh my God. _Dad_!" Jack shouts, and though the title works for either of them, he knows the harsh tone is directed at him. When he looks up, Jack is holding one of his gifts—the robot warrior thing that he'd nearly had to wrestle from the hands of another desperate father. "Do we have batteries?" Jack asks.

 

 

***

 

They're tearing ass down dangerously winding backstreets in Tokyo, a black town car nipping at their heels as the rain beats down against the face shield of his helmet. He's steering a gorgeous little Kawasaki motorcycle he stole from some high-ranking member of the Yakuza, a move some might call ill-advised, but it had been worth it to see Arthur stretched across the machine in his skintight leather ensemble. He can't call out to Arthur because they're both wearing helmets, and anyway he wouldn't hear his answer over the roar of the motor and the pounding of the rain.

 

They're going to crash. They're going to crash and die, or get shot, he edits when one of the Yakuza rolls down the town car window and leans out to shoot at them.

 

But no. They _can't_ die—not really. _None of this is real_. At least…he doesn't think it's real. A bullet tears the sleeve of his leather jacket and Eames takes a sharp turn that nearly overturns the bike in order to buy them a little time.

 

Arthur has a grenade launcher tucked under one arm, his other arm slung around Eames' chest, holding on tightly. This was back before they fucked for the first time—when he'd been harboring a crush for _ages_ , and the intimate touch sent thrills through his body, even though he was absolutely petrified at the time. The point man slings the launcher over Eames' lap somehow—he'd never really been able to figure out how—not even now, in his own memory. Arthur then throws his leg over Eames' back and rides sidesaddle before he lets go, and for a split second—a horrifying blink of the eye that leaves Eames breathless even though he can't fully see what's happening—Arthur lets go and positions himself _backwards_ on the seat.

 

He reaches back and taps Eames' side, indicating he wants the launcher. Eames shimmies it to him. He focuses on steering—on not crashing the bloody bike and killing them both—when suddenly a massive roar rips across his left ear, and he realizes Arthur has shot the grenade launcher. The car explodes behind them, momentarily lifting the bike up on its front wheel, before the rear wheel falls back to the ground and Eames can steady it. He screeches to a halt, kicks out the stand, and gracelessly descends from the bike.

 

"What the bloody buggering _fuck_!" he shouts, his ear ringing painfully beneath the helmet. Eames tears off the protective gear and throws it to the ground. When he touches his ear, his fingers come back covered in blood. Something has ruptured deep inside. "You don't shoot a grenade launcher that close to someone's head, Arthur!"

 

Arthur is positively glowing when he climbs off the bike and removes his helmet. He gazes from the smoking wreckage of the car, back to Eames, like a proud cat presenting its owner with a dead mouse. Eames temporarily forgets to be angry when he watches Arthur swing his long legs off the bike and he walks toward the forger. "Sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of me kicking so much ass," he says, grinning cheekily.

 

"Yeah, well…I can't hear at all," Eames grumbles, touching his ear again.

 

Arthur frowns suddenly. "Let me see," he says softly, and when he cups Eames' face, the forger forgets how to breathe. They…don't do this. They don't touch casually like this, or at least, Arthur never initiates it. This feels like the earth moving beneath his feet—like something in their dynamic is permanently shifting, and he doesn't know whether to feel elated or terrified, so he decides to feel both. Eames watches his face closely, and he can see the little lines at the corners of Arthur's eyes and his pink mouth. In that moment, he realizes he's never wanted anything or anyone as badly as he wants Arthur. He'd gladly give back all the paintings and sculptures he's stolen over the past couple decades if it meant he could kiss the point man—just once. 

 

Of course, Arthur totally ruins the moment when he adds: "And I thought it was tough to get you to listen to me _before_.."

 

The cheeky bugger grins at him and Eames smirks, shoving him away. 

 

He'll never fully regain the hearing in that ear. 

 

 

***

The memories toss him around unrelentingly, and there is no anchor. There is nothing to keep him grounded—to remind him that none of it is real. He is lost for a long time—for what feels like ages, but may only actually be minutes in the real world. It's long enough for him to trace the history of Them—he and Arthur—from the beginning to the seconds before his mate stopped breathing in the dream. He witnesses every holiday and every anniversary. He watches Arthur mark the sprogs' heights on the kitchen doorframe. He watches himself bandage Max's knee after he falls off his bike, and Arthur and Rose dance like spastic fools in the living room to the _Hairspray_ soundtrack.

 

Every memory is so full-bodied and warm that he wants to remain inside them forever. He doesn't want to remember his purpose here, or how he originally fell.

 

But eventually, he is walking along a barren dirt road, and he _remembers._

 

_Arthur._

 

He sees the back of a slim, dark-haired man standing…not at a bar, but at the edge of a cliff, and he knows it's part of the same cliffs he saw from his vantage point down on the beach all those years ago. _Arthur_. As he approaches his mate, the winds pick up around them until they whip his hair and his jacket around his frame. It's almost impossible to walk in a straight line, and he stumbles, his shouts drowned out by the roar. 

 

The wind is going to rip him apart and scatter what's left of him along the beach. He's sure of it. But when he's standing at Arthur's back, the disturbance suddenly stops, and Eames sees they're standing in the middle of a red tornado. 

 

"Arthur," he says again, and he hears his mate gasp softly. "Arthur," he repeats again, the name a benediction, and he feels so, _so_ relieved when he wraps his arms around his mate's waist and buries his mouth and nose against the soft locks of his hair. "Where did you go? I couldn't find you."

 

Arthur trembles, and he knows instinctively that the other man is crying, but he can't imagine why. They're together. Everything is perfect again.

 

"I couldn't find my ring," Arthur says eventually, and Eames looks down to see his ring finger is indeed bare. 

 

"It doesn't matter. It's a dream," Eames says, keeping his lips within range of Arthur's ear—of his neck. He specifically refuses to look anywhere else, terrified he'll see something, or someone, staring back at them from the noise of the twister. "We have to go," he says, the idea that had all but disappeared in his mind forcing itself to the forefront once more. _None of this is real_. He sees the faces of their children when he closes his eyes. They have to wake up. They have to wake up _now_.

 

"No," Arthur says, his voice trembling, and he tries to move forward as if he's trying to walk off the edge of the cliff.

 

Eames bends his knees and drags him back, his heart in his throat. He thinks of Mal. He think of Mal falling from the hotel window.

 

"Look," Arthur says desperately, pointing off the edge of the cliff. " _Look_ ," he begs, voice breaking.

 

Eames obeys and gazes over his shoulder. Down below, he sees two figures moving slowly along the beach—two elderly men with white hair. Though he can't see their faces, Eames instantly recognizes them. "It's us," Arthur gasps, pointing—perhaps reaching in the direction of the figures.

 

"No," he says, though he's transfixed by the image and finds he can't look away. Some nagging thought keeps eating away at him—that if he succumbs to these memories and the idea that they've already lived their entire lives, he'll lose the will to pull them both from limbo. "Not us. Not yet."

 

"Yes," Arthur insists, moving forward again, but Eames refuses to budge or let him go. 

 

" _No_ ," he says, more sternly, his mouth at Arthur's ear. "It will be one day, but not now. We have to go back to our children." Arthur tenses at the mention of the sprogs, and encouraged, Eames continues: "Jack is waiting for us. So is Rose and Max."

 

Arthur's face turns toward him, and Eames' lips graze the tip of his nose and his lips before they're looking at each other, and Eames can see the glimmer of recognition in his eyes. At last, Arthur knows he's dreaming. He knows this isn't real. He says his mate's name again, but it's drowned out by the siren of the wind, which returns in full force, nearly plucking them from the cliff's edge, but suddenly Arthur moves. He grips Eames' hand, and they're running at full speed—away from the wall of noise. 

The suns split like eggs in the sky and pour their molten lava down from the heavens to join the cacophony racing toward them like a tidal wave that will bury them and burn the flesh from their bones.

The ground crumbles beneath their feet—the cliff falling apart and tumbling to the beach down below. They'll die if they stop running. Eames grabs Arthur by the elbow and pulls him along the dirt road, which groans and collapses at their heels. They sprint past Mal, who stands by a speed sign, smiling serenely. They pass the trailer right before it splits in two, and a heavily armed group of Yakuza, who shout threateningly at them until the earth opens and swallows them.

 

The world is ending. Everything is falling apart. There is nothing but the roar at their backs, and Arthur, and Arthur clutching his hand.

 

 

***

 

As it turns out, death is just momentary darkness.

 

Eames opens his eyes and he's inside the mall, sprawled across a lawn chair. 

 

He has only a moment to enjoy a sense of serenity before the gunfire starts.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family reunited

Cobb drags Jack out of the room before the boy can see his father shoot himself. As the room trembles and quakes around them, Cobb picks up Jack, tosses him over his shoulder, and sprints down the hallway. He has to get them both out of the high-rise before the entire structure collapses. By his calculations, the timer should run out on its own soon, and they'll wake naturally. If, however, they die before the timer, they'll plunge into limbo along with Eames and Arthur.

 

"Dad! _Dad_!" Jack shrieks, even though Eames is already gone—Cobb had heard the telltale blast of the rifle before he'd charged through the fire exit stairway's door. The boy calls for his fathers the whole time, even as Cobb descends the steps that begin to turn to sand under his feet—even when they're outside and Eames and Arthur would have no way of hearing him even if they both weren't already dead and gone. The boy never stops struggling, and when they're outside, Cobb is finally forced to set him down.

 

" _Jack_ ," he says firmly, kneeling before the boy and taking him by the shoulders to steady him. "We're going to meet your dads when we wake up, okay?" He decides lying is the easiest way to play this. Cobb glances around them to make sure no major structure is about to fall on their heads and kill them both. All of the buildings are bending at unnatural angles, and he can see their facades splintering and cracking.

 

Jack's face is red and there are tears in his eyes. He looks heartbroken, but he's also breathing heavily like he's angry and ready to punch something—maybe Cobb. He wouldn't blame the kid. Cobb also lost his parents at a young age, and he remembers being furious at the whole world for a very long time. Then he reminds himself not to think like that. Arthur and Eames aren't _necessarily_ gone. He's known the point man and forger to get out of tougher spots than limbo, but then he thinks back to his own time in the labyrinth—with Mal—and how they'd been lost together for decades.

 

From above, the high-rise groans, and when Cobb looks up, he sees giant chunks of concrete falling away from the building. "Come on," he instructs, and thankfully, Jack doesn't struggle when he takes him by the hand and begins running, a little slower this time for Jack's benefit, down the main road. He figures, if they stay in the middle of the street, they may have a shot at living long enough to beat the timer. There aren't any projections threatening to tear them limb from limb, and the greatest threat appears to be being squashed by bits of falling architecture.

 

He can't let Jack fall into limbo. He _can't_ , mostly because Arthur and Eames would never have allowed it, and he owes them. He owes them both. A long time ago, the men helped Cobb return to his family, and he aims to return the favor now. 

 

He brought this trouble to their front door. The very least he can do is protect Jack.

 

"We're okay," Cobb says , mostly for Jack's sake. "We're okay," he says again, one last time, before the timer runs out.

 

Cobb sits up so quickly, he nearly overturns the lawn chair. He hears a soft whimper nearby, and when he looks over, he sees Jack struggling to remove the line from his arm. He detaches the cord from his own arm quickly, and then moves to help the boy do the same. All the while, he glances around the room nervously. There are men—masked, heavily armed men, scattered around the room, and one of the men is talking to Saito, who looks as calm and collected as ever—as though he hasn't just been kidnapped and held hostage in his own dream.

 

The kidnappers, the man in the bolo tie and his two goons, are splayed out in their chairs, each of them sporting a single red bullet wound in the centers of their foreheads. They're dead. Bolo's face is turned toward Cobb and his eyes are still open. The extractor quickly looks away.

 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Ariadne and Yusuf detach from the PASIV and begin to collect themselves. When he looks over to his teammates, they nod, but each of them looks distressed and he knows exactly the reason, but the unstated is verbalised a moment later by Jack.

 

"Dad," he says again, and Cobb looks over to Arthur and Eames. They're both still under. They may never wake up. 

 

The sound of the boy's voice attracts Saito's attention, and he walks over to them. "I'm sorry you suffered this inconvenience," he says in a totally Saito-like, professional manner, but when the man looks over at Arthur, Cobb sees a muscle in his jaw twitch. "This insult will not go unanswered." 

 

Cobb imagines Robert Fischer hanging out on some private island somewhere, clueless as to the force of nature about to crash down upon him. "Thanks," he says, unsure of what else to do in the moment. He's not surprised Saito has an entire squad monitoring his every movement. Frankly, nothing about the billionaire surprises him anymore.

 

Saito waves away the thanks. "You will all be compensated for your time," he says, and Cobb can practically see Yusuf's ears perk up at that. "But in the meantime, I advise you all leave immediately. The head of my security has informed me Mister Fischer has backup heading this way. They'll be here shortly," he says casually, turns, and walks from the building, accompanied by a few of the armed men.

 

Cobb stares at his back and blinks, stunned. 

 

"Um…we can keep them connected to the PASIV," Ariadne suggests, staring down at Eames' prone figure. "We can move them…until they wake up," she amends thoughtfully, glancing in Jack's direction. In all likelihood, they won't wake up, and Jack will see his parents waste away in a hospital, but they can't say that.

 

"I can do it," Cobb says, unsure if that's true, but he doesn't want to be around people right now. He'd rather struggle to move Arthur and Eames than have to make idle, positive chitchat and lie to Jack.

 

"You're sure?" Ariadne asks hesitantly as Yusuf moves to pack all his equipment. Unlike the architect, he doesn't feel the need to exchange pleasantries. 

 

"Yes, yes. He's bloody sure. Ariadne, _let's go_ ," he says, casting nervous glances towards the entrance. 

 

Ariadne sighs, looking at the unconscious men, then back to Cobb. "Call me..later," she says vaguely, and then they're gone.  

 

Cobb stands slowly and stretches his aching muscles. Jack climbs off the chair and walks over to his parents. He frowns as he gazes down at them, and he hesitantly extends a hand to touch Eames' brow. Cobb has to look away then, so he fixes his gaze instead on the man with the bolo tie and his unblinking eyes.

 

The screech of tires outside in the parking lot is his first warning. He knows instantly it's Yusuf driving their car away, warning them of an approaching vehicle. Cobb dips his fingers into Eames' jacket pocket and retrieves the car keys. That's when the gunfire starts. Saito's squad members shout at each other in Japanese and move into formation, and Cobb swiftly grabs Jack by the hand and drags him toward a side entrance. "Come on. We have to get out of here," he says even as Jack shouts and drags his heels. 

 

"Wait! _Wait_ , we can't leave them!" he shouts desperately. 

 

"We'll come back for them," Cobb says, telling himself that he really means that. He's already trying to sort out how he's going to care for Arthur and Eames' kids—if there's enough room at the current house for five dependents. He's too frantic to feel grief yet—every ounce of energy and brain power devoted to keeping them both alive. 

 

Eames parked the car a bit to the side of the building, which gives them enough cover to sprint for the vehicle. Cobb places himself between Fischer's men and Jack even though, at least for the moment, the men seem occupied with the squad inside the mall. He gets the car unlocked and they dive inside, Jack in the back seat, and Cobb in the driver's seat. He sticks the keys in the ignition and freezes.

 

 _The PASIV_. He can't leave it in the hands of Fischer's men, but he can't detach it either—not when it's the only chance Arthur and Eames have of surviving. Just as he's trying to figure out what to do, a bullet hits the windshield and splinters the glass. Cobb throws himself down across the passenger's seat and shouts for Jack to take cover as well. The boy falls against the neighboring seat with a distressed cry and covers his head.

 

Well, this is _perfect_.. Now they're pinned down and Cobb still doesn't have a plan. He knows he can't leave his men, but he can't think of a way to get them all out alive. Finally, Cobb realizes he has to drive away. He doesn't have a choice. But when he tries to sit up and start the car, another bullet hits the windshield, this time shattering it. Another bullet follows, hitting Cobb in the arm. He shouts and slumps down again, shielding himself. 

 

A getaway isn't possible. Jack whimpers, and Cobb grimaces as he clutches his arms, blood quickly coating his fingers. "It's okay," he whispers, casting what he hopes is a comforting glance at the boy. "Your dads will be awake soon."

 

Jack is crying, curled up on the backseat. Cobb dares to glance over the dashboard and he sees Fischer's men shout orders and charge into the mall. That'll buy them a couple seconds. "Are they dead?" Jack whispers, and when Cobb looks back at him, the boy stares back with wide, fearful eyes. He can't imagine being nine-years-old and going through everything Jack has in the course of a single day.

 

"Dead?" Cobb declares disbelievingly, like the very idea is absurd. "You don't know your dads very well, do you?" he asks, glancing at the exits of the building. There are still a few men stationed outside, probably waiting for Cobb to try and drive away. Then they'll kill him. He decides to wait a little longer—praying for a distraction big enough to allow him to escape with Jack. When he looks back to the boy, Jack is gazing at him anticipatorily, like the man possesses some combination of magic words that will make everything all right. "Your dads are badasses, Jack. Don't ever forget that."

 

Cobb has seen a lot of strange stuff during his time as a dream extractor. He built an entire world with his wife, and planted an idea in a man's mind, but ranked in the top ten oddest moments is definitely witnessing Arthur and Eames charge from the building, guns blazing during a sunny Tuesday afternoon. For a second, Cobb feels like he's watching a movie, and he simply stares, slack-jawed as the men mow down Fischer's goons like they're putting on a clinic about how to outshoot inferior henchmen. 

 

"There they are!" Jack cries happily, gripping the back of Cobb's seat. The boy's voice brings Cobb back to the present and he manages to start the car and slide over to the passenger's seat just as Eames and Arthur charge up to the vehicle and climb inside—Eames in the driver's seat and Arthur in the back with their son. Before he gathers Jack into his arms, Cobb sees Arthur set the PASIV down on the floor. He's not surprised. In all their years working together, Arthur never allowed the PASIV to leave his sight.

 

"Took you long enough," Cobb quips, his voice shaking only a little.

 

"Got held up," Eames replies, ever the cool customer. He glances in the rearview mirror. "All right, champ?"

 

Jack's face is already buried in Arthur's chest, and the point man strokes his hair gently, kissing the top of his crown. "He's okay," he responds for Jack.

 

Cobb idly wonders if they left any of the men alive. He doubts it. Arthur nudges his good arm gently, and when Cobb looks down, he sees Arthur's tie clenched in his hand. He mumbles a _thank you_ and uses the fabric as a tourniquet so he doesn't bleed out, though the wound isn't grave. Eames calmly navigates the car from the parking lot, and just like that, they head home.

 

Jack is exhausted and passes out almost immediately, and when they're parked in the driveway, Eames carefully gathers the boy in his arms, and Jack rests his cheek on the forger's shoulder. Arthur walks him to his car, and there's an awkward moment where they're standing in front of each other, clueless as to what to say after they've just barely managed to escape with their lives. He and Arthur have never been the kind of men to openly discuss their feelings. Arthur is a good friend because he has an innate ability to understand Cobb's emotions so he never _needed_ to overtly express them, and the point man is loyal to a fault—willing to do almost anything to protect his loved ones.

 

And Cobb…Cobb is a terrible friend, who didn't even know his friend has children. Or a love life. Or a great love, just as he once had a great love. 

 

"I'm sorry," he says weakly, hating how inadequate the apology sounds leaving his mouth. 

 

As usual, Arthur doesn't seem angry. He simply hands Cobb the PASIV and shrugs minutely. "You didn't know." He pauses and squints at Cobb's arm. "You should get that checked out."

 

He shakes his head a little in response. "I've had worse."

 

Arthur smirks, knowing it's true.

 

Cobb is frequently mystified by his strange life. He doesn't know how he could be responsible for making such wonderful children—Phillipa and James, nor does he understand why a beautiful and graceful woman like Mal would waste her time on the likes of him. Similarly, he doesn't know how he ever attracted the attention of a man like Arthur, who is fierce and loyal, and has always been there for him.

 

"Arthur, I'm sorry," he says again, his chin dropping and fingers tightening around the PASIV's handle. He hopes Arthur understands he doesn't just mean for this mess—for putting his children's lives in danger, for nearly getting Eames killed, but for _everything_ —stretching back to even before Inception. _I'm sorry you're good and I'm not._

 

"Dom," Arthur says softly, and that makes Cobb look up because Arthur only says his first name when he means to make an important point. The point man smiles slightly at him and squeezes his good arm gently. "Really, it's okay. Call me later."

 

Things have always been simple like that between them. Cobb messes up and Arthur forgives him. It's written into the laws of nature like the rotation of the planets and the tides of the sea. 

 

Arthur turns and heads back to the house where Eames is waiting for him, cradling a sleeping Jack.

 

***

 

Arthur approaches the house slowly, taking a moment to look at Eames, who is staring back at him thoughtfully. The world still seems strange—blurred at the edges and too bright and loud. But it's real. He knows it's real because the die feels the right weight in his pocket and his wedding ring is back on his finger.

 

When they're inside the house, they say a hushed goodbye to Rebecca so as to not wake Jack, and Arthur pays her twice as much as he initially promised. Max instantly clings to his leg, and Arthur has to shush and soothe him in order to get the boy to let go. He kisses the boy's face and whispers everything is fine until he calms down. It's getting late and the sun is setting behind the horizon, so they walk the kids slowly to their bedrooms. Max clutches Arthur's left hand, and Rose holds the right. 

 

He deliberately falls a couple steps behind Eames so he can watch Jack's face as it presses to his mate's broad shoulder.

 

Arthur tucks Rose into bed first while Max fidgets in the doorway. "Is everything okay?" she whispers, and though she's always put on a brave face for the sake of Max, Arthur can hear the fear in her voice. 

 

"Everything is fine, baby," he whispers and kisses her forehead. "Thanks for helping with Max," he says, smiling a little. 

 

"You should pay me instead of Becky," she says, ever the entrepreneurial businesswoman. 

 

Arthur smirks. "Maybe when you're older."

 

She nods a little, and Arthur can tell by the way she's picking at the threads of her comforter that she wants to ask him something else. He waits until she looks up at him. "Who were those guys?" she asks, meaning the men who took her brother.

 

Arthur looks down at her fingers as they toy with a loose string. He's unsure of how to answer, so he decides to be as honest as possible while remaining deliberately vague. "They're bad men, but they're gone now."

 

Rose is their most intellectually curious child, and Arthur can tell she sees through the weak facade. There's more Arthur isn't saying, and she knows that, but it's late and she also knows her father is tired. "Okay," she says, as merciful as she is bright and compassionate. Arthur smiles a little and kisses her forehead again. Some days, Rose reminds him of Mal, and that both comforts and terrifies him.

 

Arthur stands and crosses the room to turn off her light and close the door. Max takes his hand again, even though they only have to walk a couple feet into the boys' bedroom. Like Rose, Max is already dressed in his pajamas, so he tucks the boy into bed as is and kisses the top of his head. Arthur sits on the side of Max's bed when the boy reaches for his hand again. Sometimes, he has to sit there until Max has fallen asleep. Jack used to do that, too, but he outgrew it by Max's age. 

 

When Eames lays Jack into bed, the boy stirs and wakes up. "Dad?" he says softly, and Eames shushes him.

 

"I'm here, champ. All's well," he soothes as he pulls off Jack's shirt and helps him out of his pants. Arthur looks down and sees Eames has already gotten his shoes and socks off, and makes the executive decision that it will be permissible if Jack sleeps in his underwear just this one time. Eames tucks the blankets around him and sits there a moment, smoothing his hair back. Jack glances over to them and Arthur offers a little smile in an attempt to present a visage of normalcy. 

 

"Don't leave, okay?" Jack whispers, and Arthur feels a tightening in his chest. He looks down and sees Max gazing up at him curiously, so he squeezes his hand gently. "Tell me a story," Jack says, and Eames lets out a big, dramatic sigh like he doesn't always have a thousand yarns just up his sleeve to whip out at the slightest provocation.

 

Arthur smirks and rolls his eyes before looking over to his mate, who is already sitting a little straighter, prepared to launch into a tale.

 

"Did I ever tell you how I met your dad?" he asks, and Jack smiles, shaking his head.

 

Eames leans down and whispers conspiratorially. "It was in a dream."

 

***

 

The boys are finally tired enough that Arthur and Eames can slip from the beds and turn off the lights, but just as Eames is about to shut the door, Jack speaks again.

 

"Max?" he whispers, and Arthur can just make out Jack turning in bed in the dim glow of his nightlight. 

 

"Mm?" his brother answers from across the room.

 

Then there's silence for a moment, and Arthur nearly walks back into the room to make sure Jack doesn't need anything, but just as he's about to move forward, the boy speaks. "I'm sorry I'm mean to you sometimes."

 

More silence. Max may have dropped off. Then, the sound of some rustling and Arthur sees Max walk over to Jack's bed and climb in. They're brothers, so they don't need to say everything aloud. Jack is sorry. Max forgives him the only way he knows how—by curling up beside him. Jack throws an arm around his brother's shoulders and Eames closes the door softly. 

 

They walk in silence to their bedroom, and it's only when Arthur is meticulously shedding his clothing that he speaks. "Why did you lie to him?" he asks, unbuttoning his shirt.

 

Eames slides his tie out from under his collar and looks up. "Hm?"

 

"The _we met in a dream_ thing. That's not how we met," Arthur says as he opens the closet and places the shirt on a hanger. They didn't meet in a dream. They met in a dive bar, and Eames tried an awful line to pick him up. Arthur smiles slightly at the fond memory.

 

Eames chuckles softly. "Ah, yes. Well…I suppose I meant I dreamt of someone like you for a very long time."

 

When Arthur looks back at him to see if Eames is teasing, the forger looks back, a soft expression on his face. Sometimes, Eames looks at him with such love and open trust that Arthur finds he has to look away quickly or he may do something embarrassing like cry.

 

"You shouldn't have followed me," he says softly, though there isn't any heat behind his words. It was foolish of Eames to follow him into limbo. The responsible thing would have been to get Jack out of the dream alive, but the forger hadn't done that. He'd rushed forth foolishly and almost made orphans out of their children. When he looks up, Arthur sees Eames nodding thoughtfully. 

 

"True," he eventually says, sliding out of his undershirt. "That would have been the logical choice."

 

When they're both in their underwear, Eames switches off the lights and they climb into bed. Eames pulls the blankets over them and Arthur slides closer until he's curled around the alpha's side. He rests his head against Eames' bicep and kisses his chest and his neck, breathing in his scent. Eames runs his fingers through Arthur's hair before whispering: "I've always got your back, darling."

 

Arthur smiles against his shoulder. "Until the end?"

 

Eames gently rolls him onto his back. "The very end," he murmurs and leans down to kiss him. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr: http://theaoidos.tumblr.com/


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